Six Miles High
by winter machine
Summary: When Addison remembers that she made a reservation at an exclusive new restaurant for Derek's birthday, she convinces him to fly back to New York for the weekend. Then the flight gets interesting. And then they land and things get even more interesting. Somewhat silly, rather smutty response to LS's request for Addek celebrating a birthday together, set in mid to late Season 2.
1. the very friendly skies

**A/N:** You've heard of Fluffy Fridays. How about Thirsty Thursdays? In a new low - or a new high, depending how you see it - I decided a cross-country flight was the perfect time to write the birthday prompt LS requested. (LS, you asked for a birthday celebration in Seattle, but this is close enough, right? This story's for you!) I wrote _and_ posted this from six miles up. So, in short, Addison and Derek fly from Seattle to New York. This is a strong T. (If anyone disagrees, let me know.) Let's just say are not gonna be watching the in-flight movie. Here's to the Addek Revolution! Please forgive proofreading errors, which I will re-scan once I'm back on the ground. Read, enjoy, review, and thank you!

* * *

 **Six Miles High**

* * *

"Hello? Yes, this is - oh," her face falls as she realizes what the caller wants. When she hangs up, she turns to Derek. He's sitting up in bed with a medical journal open on his lap, not paying any attention to her. If he even remembers his birthday is in three days, he hasn't said anything about it.

"Derek?"

He glances up. "Hm?"

"That was ... I mean, I forgot that I made a reservation at the new Michel Aucoin restaurant for this Saturday night. It was months ago."

She remembers how excited she was to get the reservation. She likes planning birthdays in advance.

"Fourchette," she reminds him. "The one with the write-up that you - and I was going to take you there for your birthday."

"Fourchette?" He frowns as he repeats the name. "Didn't you tell me there a two-year wait?"

"Yes, but Michel bumped me up when I delivered his sister's twins. And it's Michel. So you know it will be amazing."

"He's _your_ favorite," Derek say dismissively, and she's a little hurt. It's true that she takes the lead in choosing restaurants, scouting new ones and keeping up with reviews and the movement of chefs whose work she likes. But Derek told her the last time they ate at Aucoin, Michel's first restaurant, that he loved it. As well he should – Michel is nothing short of brilliant, creative and daring with a knack for making flavors she thought she knew taste fresh and different. She can still taste the heavenly fluke carpacchio, with Michel's muddled yuzu-lime-watercress curling gently on his signature triangular plates.

"You liked Aucoin," she says faintly.

Derek shrugs. "Why are you telling me this?' He doesn't sound aggressive, just curious. "Are they charging you for canceling the reservation?"

"No. I mean, I don't know." He glances at him, then decides to take a chance. "I was kind of thinking maybe we could … _not_ cancel the reservation."

He doesn't look up from his blackberry. "Yeah? You want to see if Savvy and Weiss want to take it?"

"I meant that we could take it."

Now he looks up, eyebrows furrowed. "But we're in Seattle, and the restaurant is in Manhattan," he says slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dull child.

"I know that, Derek," she says patiently. "I meant … we could go to New York."

"Go to New York. You want to fly across the country for a dinner reservation?"

"First of all, it's not just a _dinner reservation,_ It's Mcihel Aucoin! And second of all … it's your birthday."

"Thirty-nine." He shrugs. "It's not exactly a big birthday."

"It's still your birthday, and I planned – well, I had a weekend planned you know, before…"

"…before you slept with Mark." He leaves it at that, which is good because she's feeling a little raw, a little vulnerable as she asks him to spend his birthday with her, and she's not sure she could take even good-natured ribbing about what she's done to their marriage.

"Well, the dinner reservation," she says tentatively, "and then I got us a reservation at V in the village – you know, with the glassed-in roof pool. I mean … I thought it would be fun…." Her voice trails off.

"Derek…"

He turns around.

"You said we, um, we should go back to the place with the boat."

He's not looking at her. "I know."

"So we could … go to Manhattan instead?" Her voice rises at the end, and she hates it. "Derek … it's your birthday. We always plan each other's birthdays."

She says it before she can correct herself.

"…at least we used to," she can't help adding. Two years ago Derek forgot to make any plans, so she made the dinner reservation herself, and he showed up actually on time and then spent the rest of the night in bed making it up to her. Last year he not only forgot but scheduled a surgery smack in the middle of prime dinner hour. She ate bloody-rare steak – as graphic as her anger at the time – with Mark instead.

Derek is looking at her now and she wonders if he's remembering last year.

"We could fly out tomorrow morning – there's a 6:45, and I know that's early but it will give us some time to settle in before dinner. Then we take the last flight out Sunday and we won't even have to miss any work."

"That's a lot of flying for two days."

"It's your birthday," she says again.

"Addison…"

"Please," she says quietly, "we don't have to do anything else –"and she can tell he knows she means they don't have to go back to the brownstone, don't have to try to sort out any of the tangled mess they left behind of their lives in New York. There's a hotel waiting for them in the west village; they won't have to go uptown at all.

"You really want to."

She studies her husband's face. His hair is a bit rumpled and even though it's his fingers that have been running through it, not her own, she's still filled with a rush of affection. "I really want to."

"Okay then." Derek nods shortly. "We'll keep the reservation."

…

He doesn't know what came over him.

Okay, he thinks it probably has something to do with the way Addison was biting her lip softly when she brought up his birthday. She loves making big deals over holidays.

Whatever the reason, no sooner had he acquiesced to the trip than Addison was a flurry of motion, packing, making calls, finalizing arrangements. She's in her element when festivity and organization merge.

And that's how he ended up standing in the priority line at the gate at 6 a.m. while the big jet that awaited them hummed quietly on the runway just outside. They sail through the priority line – Addison is whatever comes above gold – platinum? Fairy dust? Something like that, and then they're settling into comfortable leather seats.

Addison made the arrangements and of course she likes the window seat. She always wants the window seat. In Addison's case, it's not because she gets up less frequently than Derek. In fact, she gets up more frequently, so Derek has always assumed it's because she enjoys making him stand up whenever she wants to stretch her legs or adjust her makeup. Other than one over flight in which he got annoyed and refused to stand, and her compromise consisted of what could only be called a mid-air lap dance, he has stopped protesting. After that, to avoid embarrassment – his own, of course,- he always stood up when she wanted to get out.

Addison looks a little nervous, which surprises him. She's an utterly calm flyer, her chief complaint being restrictions on moving around the cabin. She's not exactly a fan of authority – why would she be, when she's always convinced she knows best? He studies her profile – it's inarguably lovely, even if he's not sure why he agrees to traverse the country twice in forty-eight hours.

She sees him looking. "What?"

"You really booked a hotel room?"

"I really did. I was planning on … a celebratory weekend."

"How long have you been planning this?"

"A while," she admits. "Since you told me you like Aucoin, and then Michel opened the new restaurant, and then we were reading an article about the pool on the V's roof …" her voice trails off.

"Oh." It must have been about six months ago, the last time they shared coffee, croissants, and the Sunday New York Times, formerly a frequent tradition. He remembers her reading something to him about a rooftop pool. He remembers being distracted, probably feigning interest. She must have been listening, and wanted to select something he would enjoy. He's sort of touched, but he pushes it down quickly.

"Yeah." She fiddles with the seat belt resting around her hips.

He unfolds the newspaper the flight attendant offered and waits for – yes, here it is.

Addison has yet to fly this airline without being personally greeted and thanked for the obscene number of miles she's obtained.

"We truly appreciate how much flying you've done with us, Dr. Shepherd."

The miles aren't from flying. They're from routinely exorbitant credit card charges for shoes he's convinced she only likes because they make her look intimidating.

Admittedly, they also make her legs look delicious, but that's beside the point.

She looks a little embarrassed when the flight attendant walks away.

"Don't pretend you don't like having the red carpet rolled out. We could have flown a different airline," he reminds her.

"Last minute in these seats? No, we couldn't." She lifts an eyebrow. "Would you rather be crammed into row 37 next to the bathroom?"

"No," he admits.

"Good." She folds her hands in her lap. He notices she still looks nervous.

"Addison … is something wrong?"

"No," she says quickly. "No, of course not."

"Then what…"

"I'm just planning your birthday weekend," she says defensively.

He looks around. "We're already on the plane. We have a reservation and a hotel room … what else is there to plan?"

She mutters something he can't hear, and then flushes pink.

"What did you say?" He leans closer.

"I said, it's a plan _for_ the plane?"

"A plan for the plane? I know you're a shameless backseat driver, but pilots don't take kindly to passengers telling them how to fly."

"Not to fly, to – " She stops talking and gestures at herself with frustration. "Derek – look at what I'm wearing."

He looks. She's wearing one of those printed wrap dresses she likes that he knows are ridiculously expensive considering that when he peels them off her – and he's peeled many of them off her over the years – they seem to amount to one long rectangle of fabric with no discernible shape. _On_ her, it's a different story, of course, the material hugging her shape and moving seamlessly with her.

"It's nice." He assumes she wanted a compliment but she still looks frustrated. "What am I missing, Addison?"

She leans over the wide armrest separating them. "Derek … I wore it so we can join the club."

"The Platinum Club? You've already their top member, and I share your status. What else do you –"

"Oh my god, Derek, not the Platinum Club! The-" her voice lowers to a fierce hiss directly into his ear. "The _Mile High_ Club!"

"The Mile – what?" He pulls back. "Addison. That is not an actual club."

"Well, we're joining it anyway. For your birthday."

He glances between her and the front of the plane, which is extremely close. "How exactly do you plan for this to…"

"Just follow my lead," she murmurs, then sits back up.

"Don't I have to agree to this?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Are you … _not_ agreeing?"

"We could get caught. We're – there's a flight attendant right there!"

The blonde flight attendant who greeted Addison so enthusiastically gives Derek a warm smile when he catches her eye.

"Look, I know you're platinum, but I don't think that means they turn the other cheek to …" he lowers his voice, " _toilet sex._ "

"Can you please not call it that?" She shudders.

"We can call it whatever you want but that's what it is!"

"Derek. Are you the same guy who convinced me to have sex in the rare books library without a _door_? Or the coat check at –"

"We were younger then," he says hastily.

"Well, we're never going to be younger than we are right now, especially since you're turning thirty nine in … " she checks her watch. "Forty-eight minutes."

"You remember-"

"I heard your mother tell the story of when you were born a thousand times, Derek, of course I remember. Not even Jesus has had his birth retold so often."

"Mentioning my mother is not the best way to get me to have sex with you," he whispers.

"Now I have to _get_ you to have sex with me? Derek, you told me years ago you wanted to join the Mile High Club!"

"Was I drunk?"

"Well, yes, but that's not the point!"

She leans back in her seat crossing her legs with deliberate slowness, giving him a flash of red lace.

Damn it.

"Fine," he mutters.

"I knew it." She beams.

…

Let's get one thing clear. For all her bravado, she has no idea what in the hell she's doing. She's spent thirty-eight years avoiding airplane bathrooms unless altogether necessary and now here she is checking her watch for the perfect moment to seek one out and … wait for him. She's planned it carefully so that they can join the club at the exact moment he turns thirty-nine.

Never let it be said that Addison Shepherd isn't detail-oriented when it comes to planning.

She shifts in her seat during takeoff, adjusting the hem of her skirt and waiting for the plan to ascend. At ten thousand feet, the seat belt sign clicks off – but that's just two miles, and that's not the club they're joining.

She waits patiently for cruising altitude, then pops her seat belt off so fast the metal claw hits Derek on the knee.

"Ow!"

"Sorry," she whispers. "Okay, I'm … going."

"You're going."

"Just sit here for five minutes and then come knock on the door."

"Five minutes?"

"You have to time it!" She taps his watch.

"Yes, I've made plans with you before, Addie, I'm well aware that synchronized watches are involved.

She glares at him. "Are you up for this or not?"

She rests a hand on his thigh as she waits for his answer.

Never let it be said that Addison Shepherd doesn't know how to get what she wants, either.

"I'm up for it."

"Good." She nods decisively and then climbs over him to get out of the seat, purposefully letting her thighs brush his, leaning some of her weight against him.

And then she's oh-so-casually opening the bathroom door, her heart starting to beat faster…

Hm.

This was definitely sexier in her imagination. The bathroom doesn't exactly smell amazing even if they only took off thirty minutes ago. Plus, i's a tight squeeze and she's in there along right now. She and Derek have had sex in some pretty creative and acrobatic positions before but this might be pushing it. She studies the counter space – tiny metal sink, slats in the wall to deliver tissues and paper towel. Then there's the toilet – ugh, she uses a tissue to guard her hand as she closes the lid. There's barely enough leg room for one person; straddling him is out. The far wall is so close to the toilet it might as well be underwater, and-

She jumps at a loud knock on the door. Five minutes passed quickly. She reaches out to flick the lock open, then leans back against the sink. Hastily, she straightens her hair and then gives her best seductive smile. "Come in," she murmurs.

Nothing.

Oh, right. Airplanes are loud. Murmurs won't work, so she switches to a bellow. "Come in!"

"Uh … are you going to come out first?"

She jumps again, this time blushing furiously at the unfamiliar male voice.

"The captain would like to use the restroom," the flight attendant says sweetly, giving Addison a dark look.

"Yes. Um. Of course. Sorry." Addison steps aside, her cheeks hot with embarrassment.

Derek is standing behind the flight attendant, giving her a helpless shrug.

"What happened?

"I got up right when you told me to, but then the captain came out of the cockpit."

"How can he need the bathroom, we took off five seconds ago!"

"Why don't you ask him when he comes out? I'm sure he'll love that."

Addison can't help smiling a little at this. "Okay, so I think we should-"

"It's not going to work. This is a sign."

"it's not a sign. Just let me think a little!" She turns to walk back up the aisle. "Are you coming?"

"No, I have to use the bathroom now or it will look like I only got up to have sex with you."

They're speaking quietly, drowned out by the roar of the engine.

"You did only get up to have sex with me."

"But the whole plane doesn't have to know."

"Fine." She stalks back to their row and flops into her window seat.

"Can I get you anything, ma'am?"

She considers this. "Can I have an extra blanket?"

"Are you cold?" The flight attendant narrows her eyes.

"Freezing," Addison says sweetly, realizing she might be more believable if her cheeks weren't flushed pink.

…

Derek returns to their seats, giving Addison a confused look when the flight attendant returns with a folded up silky-soft grey blanket.

"Here's your blanket," she says cheerfully, stressing the word _your_ , and hands it to Addison.

"Thanks." She turns to Derek. "Okay, let's get blanketed."

"Blanketed?"

"Derek, I don't know how to put this, but … my engine is revved and I need to fly."

"That is a terrible metaphor."

"But it's accurate."

"Addison."

"I need your help or I'll just have to take care of it myself."

She shakes out the thin blanket and spreads it over her lap. "You won't be satisfied until you're arrested for indecent exposure, will you?"

"Derek-"

"Can I offer you another glass of champagne, ma'am?"

Addison jumps so high in her seat Derek is surprised her head doesn't hit the vent above their seat.

She gulps her champagne hastily, glaring at Derek when he reminds her it's not even eight a.m. yet.

"It's almost eleven in New York."

"Eleven _a.m._ "

"Shut up." She drains the glass. "Okay, we're doing this again."

"What? No."

"Come on. You go first this time. And I'll come meet you."

"It didn't work last time."

"But I'm better than you at this."

"Better than me at – wait a minute, have you done this before?"

"Well, no."

"Then how can you be better than me at it?"

"I can't be much worse!"

He gives her an outraged look. "You can't blame me for the failure! The Captain had to use the restroom. You want to make the man responsible for keeping us alive at thirty thousand feet to wait because you're horny?"

"When you put it that way … yes," she admits.

"That is selfish," he scolds her.

"Selfish, huh?" She raises an eyebrow. "I was planning to be _very_ generous in there."

His eyes narrow. "How generous are we talking?"

" _Very_ generous."

One of her hands slides onto his thigh and he flinches at the contact.

"Addison…"

"What?" Her tone is innocent. "A married couple can't … snuggle on a plane?"

"If this is snuggling to you – hey," he intercedes as her hand slides higher, "then you are in worse shape than I thought."

"Would you just go to the bathroom so I can join you?" Her voice is a hiss in his ear.

He shakes his head. "You know what, that just doesn't sound sexy no matter how you say it."

" _Derek_." She takes his hand and draws it under the blanket, moving it toward the source of her heat.

"Jesus, Addison!"

"Now do you believe me? This is an emergency!"

"Have planes always made you this horny? Did I somehow miss it, all these years?"

"We can talk about that later. Now just – _go._ "

He goes.

Feeling like an idiot, he walks up the aisle. The flight attendant gives him a look he doesn't want to analyze. Of course the restroom is occupied, so he stands awkwardly by the flight attendants' station, watching the clouds drift by outside the porthole window

"Smooth flight so far," he says lamely, feeling he should make conversation.

"Yes." The flight attendant studies his face. "Let's hope is stays that way, shall we?"

He gulps and doesn't make any more attempts at small talk; luckily, the door swings open then and Derek hastily slips inside.

He locks the door and looks around. If someone like Addison, who doesn't even like walking _over_ subway grates, is willing to get naked anywhere near this place, the Mile High Club must be pretty great.

He checks his watch. Naturally, it's exactly five minutes when he hears a knock on the door. Carefully, he slides the lock open as she instructed, and then presses himself against the sink to make room for her as she slides into the tiny room.

She has to press up against him to close the door, which he doesn't really mind.

"Was the flight attendant still out there?"

"I think so."

"We have to wait for her to move, Addie. She's on to us!"

"She's not on to us."

"She is."

"Derek, we're platinum-plus members. She should be laying out a goddam sex hammock for us and I bet she would if we ask."

"You snob." He shakes his head.

"I'm not a snob, I just like the finer things in life."

"The finer things in life … like sex in a smelly bathroom the size of a phone booth?"

"Ooh, phone booth." Her eyes light up.

"What do you mean?" He's suspicious.

"Nothing you need to worry about." She pauses, smiling. "Why do they call it the Mile High Club, anyway? We're more like six miles high..."

…

"Addison…" at his warning tone, she decides she's done waiting and moves in for a kiss, her hand sliding up his thigh as her tongue strokes across his. He responds immediately, dragging her closer and taking control of the kiss, dipping her head back to taste the skin at her neck while she cups him through the fabric of his pants.

He hisses.

"You still want me to stop?" She pulls her hand back and grins at him.

"I hate you."

"It doesn't feel like you hate me," she says, her tone innocent. She moves closer to him and then he hears a thump as some part of her bangs against something.

"My shin," she moans, and she's laughing and half-crying at the same time.

"I'm sorry, Addison, this isn't built for two people." He tries to move his hand down to rub her leg but his feet stick to the floor. _Ugh._

"This bathroom is disgusting."

"Because you didn't make it in early and now we've been airborne for an hour and a half. But it's not THAT bad, and anyway…" With that, she whips a packet of Lysol wipes from her purse.

Derek's eyes widen. "Seriously?"

"You know I like to be prepared!"

"Prepared for _this_?"

She does a quick scrubbing.

He can't help sliding his hands under her dress, up the silky smooth skin covering the muscles of her thighs.

"Lace, huh?" He presses a kiss to her neck. "New?"

"Maybe."

"So I shouldn't rip them."

"Not when we have another four hours in the air, no."

"Fine."

He lifts her up onto the sink and she laughs a little, then grabs onto him for support. "Derek – this sink is either very narrow or my ass has gotten very wide."

"Your ass is perfect," he assures her, as he knows is his husbandly duty. "But the sink is narrow. So hold onto me."

She ignores him; instead, her hands drop to his belt buckle, and she's about to start unbuckling, he can tell by her lowered eyelashes, the look in her hazy eyes, except when she lets go of his shoulders she pitches forward and he has to grab her to keep her upright.

She slides a hand into his hair and kisses him fiercely; he figures it's about 50% passion, 50% needing strong suction to make sure she doesn't fall.

"Is that an announcement?"

The call light blinks in the bathroom.

 _Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. We're seeing some light turbulence from the flight deck. Please take your seats and fasten your seatbelts. Thank you._

She curses and then grabs his shoulders when he starts to pull back.

"Don't you dare. After all the work it took to get here!"

"The seatbelt light is on!"

"Now's not the time to become a stickler for rules, honey." She wraps her legs tighter around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groans.

"I bet the flight attendant can hear us."

"Then she'll be jealous." Addison leans her head back as she slips her other hand between their bodies. "Happy birthday," she whispers, and grasps him just this side of too firmly, making him gasp.

" _Addison_."

"What?" Her hand is moving in the way she knows drives him crazy now, alternating pressure with those nimble, talented fingers, and if she doesn't stop -

"Hey." He pulls her hand away. "You don't get to have all the fun."

She grins. "So you have some fun, then."

"Oh, I plan to." He pushes up the loose fabric of her skirt and thumbs the lacy fabric between her thighs. She moans as he yanks the fabric free; the panties drop to her ankles and his fingers press against the source of her heat. He's just sinking into the silky softness beckoning his hand when the plane lurches, throwing her hard off the sink.

She cries out with surprise, but he's holding onto her so she doesn't fall. Instead, his back slams against the opposite wall and he's pretty sure whatever metal thing he just bumped into is going to leave a very interesting bruise.

"Sorry!" She holds his face. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay, but since it's turbulent maybe we should" –

The plane lurches again, this time the other way, shoving both of them toward the mirror; he frees a hand to grab the back of her head before it can slam into the mirror.

"Thanks," she pants.

And with that the plane lurches again, and this time with her legs wrapped around him the motion of their bodies drives him deeply into her; she cries out.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just give me a second." She's panting a little; her muscles accommodating him and then the plane shakes with the vibrations of the patch of rough air and she moans into his neck. Maybe _this_ is what makes the Mile High Club so good.

She's grabbing him tightly with her thighs and her muscles are grabbing him from inside in a way that feels like the sweetest torture; she's trying to hold on, he knows, because it feels like any minute their connected bodies might smash through the rattling, turbulent door. But _this_ has to be what the Mile High Club actually is all about because her grip on him, iron and velvet all at once, does him in faster than he would have thought possible, with the exhalation of her name into her hair and one last thrust into the shaking wall.

"See … that wasn't so bad," she whispers in his ear, moist lips trailing their way down the sensitive skin behind his ear.

"Shut up." He kisses her hard, taking her bottom lip between his teeth –

in retrospect, a terrible idea, because even though it's a move she normally loves, the jolt of the plane drives his teeth into her skin.

"Ow!" She pulls back, dabbing at her lip. "Am I bleeding?"

"Yes. Sorry." He winces, reaching around her warm slippery body for a tissue that he uses to blot her lip.

"It's okay."

He's still holding her up; now he moves very carefully to the sink and sets her down on the counter, red lace panties still dangling at her ankles – protected from the worryingly sticky floor by her insanely high heeled shoes.

She sighs a little at the loss of contact as he slides out of her, and he laughs, kissing her more gently this time.

"We actually pulled it off."

"Told you," she says smugly.

…

She knew it would be hot. And now Derek has to eat his words.

Okay, maybe the hot part is over now that she's cleaning herself up with a handful of wet paper towels in a tiny airplane bathroom. But still.

Derek is buckling his belt, grinning at her. "You know what, I should have listened to you when you said this was a good idea."

"You should have listened to me when I said a lot of things," she grumbles, but she can't be too upset because the way he's stroking her bare leg is reminding her that even if they're done joining the club, they still have a whole weekend together.

"All clean?"

"Yes," she says primly, cheeks flushing.

"Good." And without warning, he hoists the leg he's holding higher, sliding further between her thighs as she yelps with surprise. "Then let's get you dirty again."

"Derek!"

He just laughs at her, his free hand sliding between their bodies. She closes her eyes, any protest dying in her mouth as he draws lazy circles against heated flesh. There's just no substitute for – let's not sugarcoat it – sixteen years of fucking the same person, learning every inch of their bodies, what every gasp and moan means, exactly when to speed up and when to slow down, and –

"Oh!" He's curled those way-too-talented fingers inside her and he feels like he's everywhere at once. Her body is boneless under his touch and he's holding one of her legs; her free leg scrabbles at his hips, feeling like she's sliding off the sink. Her body is boneless, but he's holding her up, and the pressure builds until she has to bury a scream along with her teeth in the flesh of his shoulder. Exhausted, she gives up trying to hold herself up and just sumps against him.

"I've got you."

She regains enough strength to wrap her legs around his waist. "I don't know if I can stand," she says shakily.

"Good, then I've done my job." He kisses her briefly. "Like I said … it's my birthday so I should get to have some fun too."

"I'm okay with that." She laughs a little into his shoulder, then a little more. She gets like this sometimes after …. And he tangles his fingers in her hair; she can feel him smiling against the top of her head. The first time she burst into wild laughter they were med students with endless energy and he seemed shocked; now, he's clearly not surprised – if anything, he's pleased.

"That good, huh?"

"You are _so_ arrogant."

"You love it."

"Maybe."

…

There's a loud knock on the door.

"Fuck," she whispers.

"Not right now, maybe again later."

"Derek!" She shoves his shoulder. "They're going to see us, everyone's going to know."

"Yeah, you've made it pretty obvious." He takes in her flushed skin, the rosiness extending over her delicate collarbones and down the plunging neckline of her dress. Her hair has distinct finger marks, her lips are kiss-swollen, and her eyes look so sleepy and sated he's not sure how much longer she'll be awake.

"It's your fault."

"You're welcome," he says smoothly, raising an eyebrow when she glares at him. "Come on, let's go before we end up on the No Fly list."

He helps her slide her lace panties back up her endless legs – she moans and, fine, he isn't exactly being efficient about it, more like taking his time to skim over sensitive flesh, but finally they've reached their destination and he helps her slide them over her hips.

She reaches up to finger comb his hair back into place, and then tries to smooth her own down.

"Better?"

He nods.

Addison is truly remarkable – he knows this, but he's reminded again and she stands, with his help, on shaky legs, taking a moment to tuck her hair behind her ears, and then suddenly she's perfectly proper again, swinging open the door with impressive confidence.

She stalks out, her heels clicking until she hits carpet, and then suddenly he realizes why she was so confident.

 _She_ left first, thus preserving the illusion that she was innocently using the bathroom. As for him? HE's stuck walking out after her, making it clear that their time in the little metal cubicle was anything but innocent.

Oh, he's definitely going to get her back for this.

…

He holds his head high as he walks out, crossing his fingers that whatever punishment they might receive isn't enough to go through the medical board.

Thankfully – apparently someone up there likes him – the flight attendants are both in the aisle when he exits, though the businessman in a perfectly creased suit gives him a dirty look when he walks out.

Addison is sitting in her window seat three rows back, legs crossed, apparently engrossed in the in flight magazine resting on her lap. He slides in next to her.

"Nice job setting me up," he scolds her lightly.

"I don't know what you mean." She doesn't look at him, apparently focused hard on a map of O'Hare. After today he's not certain she's not scoping out other places for them to christen.

"Don't worry about it," he tells her affectionately, sliding a hand under the loose hem of her skirt and palming one bare thigh, which makes her gasp. He grins at how sensitive she still is; he's always loved that about her. It takes a little while for her nerve endings to settle down, for the blush that – if only he could look, probably still extends down her thighs – to fade away.

"Derek…" Her voice holds warning.

"What?"

She's shifting in her seat, lips pressed together, and he takes pity on her, releasing her with just one last stroke to the impossibly silky skin of her inner thigh.

"Hey … how much time before the reservation?"

"It's at nine. So depending on traffic from JFK we should have … wait, why?" Her eyes narrow. "What are you plotting?"

"Nothing at all." He pats her thigh through her skirt, all business now. "Don't worry about it."

…

Almost four more hours.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. It's not his fault that Addison's hair is a mess, that her eyes are still sparkling, that despite her valiant attempts to clean herself off he's still sitting closely enough to her that he can't escape her lingering arousal.

"Breakfast, sir?

He jumps at the voice.

"We have a broccoli omelet or a cheese croissant, as well as an assortment of fruit. Which can I get you?"

"Ditch the broccoli, focus on the fruit. As for extra pineapple," she whispers to him and he feels color rise in his cheeks.

"Jesus, Addison."

"I'm just trying to think ahead!"

It's worse when the food comes. He has to stare straight ahead because if he angles his head even slightly to the right he'll see Addison eating her fruit in a way that's purposefully designed to torture him.

He can't help looking over quickly. She's placing a single berry on her fork at a time, then slowly embracing it with her lips. He watches the fork disappear into her mouth and has to swallow hard.

She licks the lines clean and gives him an innocent smile. "Honey … you're staring."

"Cut it out!"

"You have a little something right there," she tells him, raising a finger to his mouth and dabbing at the corner of his lips. She raises the finger her own mouth and slowly, torturously, sucks it clean.

"Mm, jam."

He slides a hand around to rest on her hip as they wait to deplane. Her skin is warm through the fabric of her dress, and she smiles at him, apparently recovered from their club initiation.

…which is good, because he has plans for later.

He takes down her suitcase for her, and then his, watching her walk the short distance to the exit.

"I hope you enjoyed the flight, ma'am," the flight attendant says, smiling in a way that suggests she wouldn't mind if Addison took her platinum membership to a different airline.

"Oh, I did," Addison says sincerely, "but not as much as he did." She gestures behind her to Derek and with a wicked grin she disappears down the jetway before he can protest.

Fine, if that's the way they're going to play it … he'll just have to get her back when they get to the hotel.

It's only fair, isn't it? He watches her walk ahead of him, the skirt of her printed dress swirling around her endless legs, and decides this might turn out to be a pretty good birthday after all.

* * *

 _Okay, I'm kind of tempted to continue this with a part II in the hotel room. Thoughts? Review and let me know. I love reviews like Addison and Derek love cross-country flights._


	2. all aboard that's going aboard

**A/N:** Thanks for the awesome response to Part 1. It made the time on that flight pass quickly, I can tell you that. _Anyway,_ here's Part 2. The format skips around, but it should be self-explanatory. Happy Thirsty Thursday, everyone! I have to run so it's rough and not super polished but hey, so's the Addek birthday weekend. Same warnings as last time ... tongue in cheek, among other places. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Six Miles High - Part Two  
 _All Aboard That's Going Aboard_**

* * *

"Excuse me, Officer," Addison says, leaning forward as much as her position will allow, "can you please take these handcuffs off?"

The answer comes from the front seat. "Why would I do that?"

Addison shifts on the cracked leather underneath her thighs, trying to see more than the back of the officer's head through the scratched glass barrier that divides them. "Because … I can't move my hands."

"Yeah, funny thing, that's kind of the point of handcuffs."

"We're doctors," Addison protests.

"Yeah? Like Dr. Ruth," one of the officers snickers.

"I heard that!"

"Hope so," the other officer says, "'cause it was pretty loud."

"We have rights," Addison calls out, despite Derek's glare, which might sound more convincing if not for her smeared makeup and very tousled hair. "We have the right to .. stuff. Like an attorney."

"I'm aware," the policeman says drily. "Pretty sure I actually told _you_ that when I arrested you and your husband for traumatizing a very nice group of tourists from Ohio."

"We didn't – look, we're not criminals," Addison says, even as Derek tries to elbow her with his constrained arms.

"Oh, you hear that?" One of the officers is talking to the other now, loudly. "Lady says they're not criminals."

"I heard that. Guess they're not criminals, then. We should just let them go."

"Yes!" Addison tries to sit up eagerly, then slumps back down when her handcuffed wrists refuse to give her leverage.

"Addie," Derek hisses next to her, "they are _being sarcastic._ "

"Well," Addison says with as much dignity as she can muster considering the last twenty minutes, "I don't really think sarcasm befits an officer of the law."

"Then you probably should avoid committing crimes in New York City, or stay out of the city entirely," one of them points out from the front seat. "Stick to places where people are nicer."

"We love New York," Derek says hastily, glaring at Addison.

"We're aware," one of the officers says, snickering. "You know what, folks, I think your problem might be that you love New York a little _too_ much, if you know what I mean."

… unfortunately, they do know what he means. Addison and Derek exchange a nervous glance from their equally uncomfortable positions handcuffed on either side of the musty backseat of the cop car, trying not to listen to the worrying sounds of the radio transmissions from the front that say things like _yeah, we got 'em_ and _eyewitnesses_ and _make sure you get that statement in triplicate._

It was just a nice birthday trip to Manhattan. How the hell did they end up here?

...  
...

"Mm, smell that?"

"Garbage?"

"Derek!" She swats him with her bag, which might be cute for the kind of woman who carries a dainty little purse, but Addison's bags are always large enough to hold a cadaver and twice as heavy, so he takes a minute to get his breath back.

"Not _garbage,_ " she corrects him, "just that … ineffable scent of New York, all the excitement, the ambition, the melting pot, the stew of … okay, garbage, but other things, too." It's not her fault they're waiting for the late town car next to a steaming pile of …

Garbage.

Derek's eyes are twinkling. Addison sighs. "I don't understand why the car isn't here yet." She checks her cell phone again.

"Let's just take a taxi."

"There's already a car meeting us."

"It's not meeting us, or it would be here."

They bicker for a few minutes until the yellow cab that's pulled up in front of them lowers its window and the driver sticks his head out. "Hey! You two! You want a ride somewhere or you want to fight in the middle of the street?"

"Well … both," Addison says honestly, as Derek hustles both of them and their luggage into the cab.

...  
...

"Now's the time to talk."

"Talk," Addison says uncertainly.

"Yes, talk." The officer with the handlebar mustache – _Gianni_ , his name tag says, points a thick finger at her. "If you have an explanation for what … _took place,_ now's the time to tell us."

"What if we don't want to talk?"

"Well." The other officer – _Reilly,_ his name says, and his curly hair is as red as Addison's – "then we might not be so generous as to let you hang out in this lovely room."

There's a pause while Derek and Addison glance around the cement walls, peeling paint, and flickering fluorescent lightboxes.

"We have a nice holding cell available," Officer Gianni says pleasantly. "Well, one for each of you. The ladies' cell is occupied, though, but I'm sure you'll be good at sharing, and Miss Krystal always likes some company when she-"

"Okay, we'll talk," Addison says hastily.

"Good choice. So. You were saying. Then you took the cab to the …"

"No." Addison leans forward slightly in the uncomfortable plastic chair, her handcuffed wrists – in front of her this time, at least, resting on the cracked formica table. They're in an interrogation room. An actual interrogation room! "We took the cab to the hotel."

"Then why –"

"Because it's part of the story. Didn't you ask for the story?"

"I did," Officer Gianni mutters, "but I'm already regretting it."

...  
...

Derek is looking out the window, wondering how the grey forgettable streets between JFK and the parkway can still somehow be so emblazoned in his memory that it's like he never left. He cracks the window for a cool early spring breeze. The air tastes different here. It was summer when he left.

When he turns his head he sees Addison looking at him.

"What?"

"Nothing." Her mouth twitches. "How does it feel to be back?"

"It feels … we're not _back_ ," he corrects her. "We're here for dinner."

...  
...

"What do you mean, _back_?" Officer Gianni frowns. "Didn't you swear up and down you're lifelong law-abiding New Yorkers, own a home…"

"We do," Addison confirms hastily. "We've been, um, living – I mean staying – out in Seattle for the past few … months."

"Seattle?" Officer Reilly looks puzzled. "What are you doing out there?"

Addison swallows hard. For the job. Right. The job. That sounds … law-abiding. "My husband got an offer he couldn't refuse," she says weakly.

Derek snorts and she tries to elbow him which, in handcuffs, just causes her to slide down in the chair. Which is embarrassing. Then again, inching herself back up the slippery surface like an earthworm is more of a workout than pilates, so at least that's something.

Officer Reilly frowns at Derek. "What?"

"Nothing," Derek says as Addison glares at him, then seems to change his mind. "What my wife means is that _she_ got an offer that she … should have refused."

Oh, she's going to kill him if they ever make it out of jail. She wonders if Bonnie ever got this annoyed with Clyde.

She musters up as much dignity as she can under the circumstances. "May I continue?"

"Please do."

...  
...

"Dinner," she echoes. "Right. But, Derek, it's just…"

He's studying her face, waiting for her to finish, so he sees the exact moment the color of her eyes changes and knows exactly why.

"Addison…"

"Derek, it's a cab," she whispers, "you _know_ what cabs do to me."

He prays the driver can't hear them; based on the volume of the cell phone call he's taking from the front seat, he thinks they're probably safe.

"Is that why you called a town car?"

"I thought we might need a break after the flight."

"You really do think of everything." He shakes his head, impressed in spite of himself. "Look, just try to – Addison!" He covers her hand with his and shoves it hastily downwards. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all," she purrs.

"Well, I do! Look, just – " but her hand is skimming up his thigh again and he's losing the abilty to stop her. That giant weapon of a bag is coming in handy because she's using it to block them, and -

...  
...

"Did you happen to catch the medallion number of the taxi?"

"No, why did-" Addison shakes her head. "Wait a minute. We didn't do anything wrong in the taxi!"

"If you say so." The officer smirks. "Go on, then. What happened next?"

...  
...

Addison is leaning her head against Derek's shoulder as the taxi makes its way through congestion toward their hotel. His half open window – the best defense against the steamy backseat – is beckoning in a cacophony of city sounds, shouting and honking and laughing and sirens and barking and pretty much everything you can think of.

It's not peaceful.

But it could never be boring.

Addison takes a moment to reflect on what a truly special place the city is, and-

Huh, she's never heard anyone curse using _quite_ those words, strung together in _quite_ that way before, but their driver is creative, because the havoc he threatens to unleash upon the driver who cut him off, the driver's mother, the driver's ancestors, and several key parts of the driver's body, is nothing if not unique.

She's still pondering how exactly, logistically speaking, the bad driver's grandmother would be able to do _that_ when the driver pulls to a screeching halt that practically sends both of them through the barrier.

"Hurry up, can't park here."

"Well then, why did you pull over here?"

"Addison." Derek is reaching over her to open the door on the sidewalk side; he's _such_ a good citizen. "Just get out."

She flicks crisp bills at the driver while he practically throws their bags from the trunk and then squeals away from the curb.

Derek is tilting his head back like a tourist, taking in the sleek mid-rise in front of them. "So this is the V."

"This is the V. They finally finished the renovation." She points. "Now there's a glassed-in pool on the roof."

Derek turns to her. "With security cameras?"

"Probably."

"Hm." He seems to be considering it.

...  
...

"Lady, are you _trying_ to incriminate yourself?"

"We didn't do anything there either," Addison says hastily. "We got distracted."

"By the sights of the city, huh? A lot of tourists like to use that as an excuse."

"We're not tourists. We're New Yorkers. In fact, my family has been _very_ supportive of the PBA over the years, if you remember that gala-"

"Ow!" She stops talking and glares at Derek. "You kicked me!"

The policeman gives him a pointed look. "You want to add a domestic to your charges?"

"No," he says hurriedly, "I wasn't trying to hurt her, I was just trying to get her to shut up."

The two officers exchange a look.

"Seems reasonable to me."

"Yup."

Addison sputters indignantly but can't summon much of a defense.

"You were saying …"

"She was saying she was distracted."

"Distracted," Officer Gianni says doubtfully.

"Distracted," Addison confirms primly.

"Fine." Officer Reilly folds his arms on the table. "I'll bite. Distracted by what?"

...  
...

"Addison … what are you doing?"

She looks confused. "Getting undressed so I can shower."

Right. Addison can't have "plane" on her for any longer than necessary. It's one of the many vehicles and concepts that require immediate post-showering, including the subway, the crosstown bus, walking through any parade, and voting. He certainly can't blame her this time after what they did on the plane, Lysol wipes aside.

They've barely entered the room – which is vast for a Manhattan hotel room, decorated in sleek lines and shining surfaces, mostly white with a few pops of color. Addison probably thinks it's elegant; Derek thinks it's one huge dry cleaning bill waiting to happen. Definitely not the kind of hotel where you can order midnight spaghetti from room service, not without ruining the spread and carpet, even if spaghetti is surprisingly useful for –

"Derek!"

"What?"

She's not wearing anything now except the red lace panties emblazoned in his memory from the airplane. With one hand pushing open the bathroom door, she smirks over her shoulder. "Are you joining me or not?"

...  
...

"Let me guess," Officer Reilly says wearily. "You joined her."

"Of course he did," Addison said impatiently. "But that's not the point. The story's just getting started."

"Oh, good," says Officer Gianni, propping his chin in one meaty fist. "I was hoping there'd be more."

...  
...

The problem with the shower is that there's no door.

It's not a problem, it's most likely some kind of architectural statement, but Addison realizes she should have done more research before choosing the V. The entire shower is so sleek and white and minimalist that it's basically just … invisible, without any of the surfaces she was hoping would bear her weight – she doesn't exactly advertise this, but she's always been a big fan of the wide, smoked glass door in the shower of their brownstone's master bathroom feels against her flesh, cold and steamy at the same time, while Derek is behind her and …

"This shower sucks," she says mournfully, turning to her husband.

The powerful jets of water have slicked down his curly hair and it looks all wrong, so she slides her fingers into his wet locks to muss them up and make him look more like himself. She has to press her body against his to fix his hair, and he doesn't really have anywhere to put his arms other than around her to keep them both steady on the slippery Moroccan tiles lining the floor. It takes a while to get his hair to look the way she likes it, and a lot of moving around, so she shouldn't have been surprised when she felt him responding.

"So you _are_ recovered," she beams.

"I never said I wasn't." He's toying with the ends of her wet hair now, flattened out it's ridiculously long, practically to the small of her back, and he moves from there to resting his hands in the dip of her spine, then smoothing his palms over the flesh underneath.

"But in the taxi-"

"We're a little old for _in the taxi,_ Addison."

She leans back to see his face, hurt. "We are _not_ old!"

"It's my birthday. I'm old."

"You don't … _feel_ old…"

...  
...

"Are you going to get to the point anytime soon?"

"I'm _trying_ ," Addison protests. "It's kind of a long story."

"Does it really need to be, though?" Officer Reilly sighs loudly.

"Just wrap it up," Derek urges.

"I can't, they won't understand."

"How about you? Officer Gianni jerks his head at Derek. "You gonna make the wife tell the whole story?"

"Fine. I'll tell, but it's going to be a lot shorter."

"No, honey, you can't rush it," Addison protests.

"She's right, _honey_ ," Officer Reilly smirks. "Apparently the details are really important here."

"They always are," Officer Gianni muses.

...  
...

With such a frustrating shower, they have no choice but to stumble out, dripping and laughing, grab handfuls of thick terry towels and make their way to the vast white bed in the middle of the room. He doesn't have any plans, not really, they're just falling onto the supportive surface – _god,_ he's missed real mattresses but he could never tell Addison that, though by the twinkle in her eyes she can tell what he's thinking.

She's on her side looking down at him, trailing a hand along his chest and smiling and he's never been able to resist her straight out of the shower; it's the contrast of her chilled skin and the heat pulsing through from underneath, so with a little growl he flips her over and wastes no time sliding down her fragrant skin to take advantage of a hell of a lot more space than they had in the plane.

And then it's nothing but glorious sensation … well, that and trying not to lose an eye.

The thing is, Addison had been pretty pissed in med school when he made a comment about – what was it – _wrestling an angry octopus_ – and he's certainly not stupid enough to say anything like that aloud now, not for years and years, but … it wasn't inaccurate, not then and not now either.

Of course, that's just part of the fun. He's gotten better at protecting his more important parts from her frantic flailing, but she's still all threats – well, half threats and half the kind of noises that make him think he's not going to be able to last much longer … if at all.

He takes a break to smirk up at her from his very pleasant vantage point, and she tries to glare at him with eyes that are mostly rolled up in her head.

"I'm going to kill you," she moans.

"Yeah, I don't think you'll have the energy for that when I'm done with you."

"Then I'll hire a hitman."

"You were always good at delegating tasks." He kisses the satin skin at the insides of her thighs, which are currently straining against the forearms muscling them down.

He lets go for one foolish moment and her thighs seal his ears; this would actually be a fairly efficient way to kill him and truth be told, if he's going to suffocate he can't imagine a nicer way to go. Her legs are locked so tightly he can't disengage them; damn her affinity for the exercise bike. He always assumed it had something to do with the outfit, but it's apparently also in case she needs to dispose of someone Bond-girl style.

That's okay, he's been here before.

There's only ever been one surefire to get her to let go of his skull, and he goes for it now.

She shrieks and releases the death grip she has on his head.

"Derek!"

"I wasn't getting any oxygen!"

"Maybe you should get creative."

"Creative? Like tie you up? Mm." He considers this. "Maybe for your birthday."

"That's not for two months!"

"Maybe the ringing in my ears will have gone away by then."

...  
...

"You know, Mr. … Shepherd, we appreciate detail, but you can feel free to skip over the unnecessary parts."

"It was very necessary!" Derek protests.

"And it's _Doctor_ Shepherd," Addison adds.

Derek can't help smiling.

The two officers exchange a weary glance. How many years until retirement, again?

"Anyway," Addison continues, "then we-"

"Can you just get to the … scene of the crime?"

"I'm trying! It wasn't that simple!"

 _It never is._

...  
...

"Let's never leave."

She's lying on her back on the rumpled white sheets, thighs parted to bring some much needed air to her heated skin, staring at the intricately whorled carvings on the light fixture over her head.

"What about dinner?" Derek turns to grin at her. He's lying in much the same way, with one arm behind his head and the other resting on one of her spread thighs.

"Screw dinner," Addison mumbles.

"You mean screw _through_ dinner," Derek corrects her, "and I think we could use some sustenance if that's the plan."

"Fine." Addison turns over to curl against him. God, it's been a long time since they had a decent sized bed for afterglow.

…let's be real, it's been a long time since they've had decent afterglow, period.

He brings his arm down around her and she's a little amused that they're basically … _snuggling …_ after doing what can only be described as filthy things to each other.

Which is kind of the best thing about marriage, when you think about it.

...  
...

"Very touching." Officer Gianni leans back in his chair, resting his hands on his sizeable midsection. "Would you just-"

"I'm getting there!"

...  
...

"We have a few hours before the reservation," Addison says tentatively.

"You want to leave?" Derek is surprised.

"No. God, no," she admits, "but I kind of had one more thing planned."

Derek's brow furrows. "I need a little recovery time before-"

"Not _that_ thing," she says hastily. "Something else."

"Oh?"

Reluctantly, she wriggles out of his arms and rifles through her suitcase before presenting him with a wrapped package.

"Didn't you already get me enough presents?"

She smiles, sitting up cross-legged. "Just open it."

He does; it's a deep blue shirt, so dark it's almost indigo. She beams and gestures for him to hold it up against his body. "It's perfect," she says happily. "You look-"

...  
...

Officer Gianni flips his pad open. "Look, let's just agree for the sake of argument that _Derek_ here does look 'stunning' in blue."

"He does," Addison insists, "he really does, but it has to be dark blue. Which you'd think wouldn't be the case because his eyes are _light_ blue, but I think the way it works is-"

"Addison, please," Derek mutters, "we're going straight to Attica at this rate."

"I was just trying to set the scene."

"Just go on," Officer Reilly says with a generous wave of his hand.

...  
...

"I should have guessed."

"You should have," she agrees, smiling at him as her scarf whips around her face and she links her arm through his, cuddling close for warmth as the ferry picks up speed and the wind moves her hair.

Derek's new shirt – and his eyes – are the only blue Addison can see right now. It's not exactly perfect ferryboat weather; it's grey and windy, reminding everyone that New York is still weathering the _in like a lion_ phase of March and hasn't yet reached _out like a lamb._

That's not to say she's not enjoying herself. Her skin still feels like it's tingling from how much she enjoyed herself back in the hotel, in fact, and the look of delight in Derek's eyes when she brought him to the ferry dock is enough to make her body tighten up in anticipation of his favorite ways to thank her.

She glances at him sideways.

He glances back.

She -

...  
...

"We're going to be here for hours at this rate," Officer Reilly complains.

Addison glances at the clock on the wall. "About that, um, the thing is that we have these dinner reservations…"

Derek sinks lower in his seat. Forget Attica. They're definitely headed for the Supermax now.

"Oh, you have _dinner reservations_?"

Addison nods, smiling hopefully.

"Well, why didn't you just tell me that?" Officer Gianni shakes his head. "Reilly, did you know these nice folks had dinner reservations?"

"I did not know that."

"What time are those reservations?"

"Nine o'clock," Addison says quickly. "But I'd really like to be able to change before then, since…"

"Of course you would. Look, if we'd known you had dinner reservations, we never would have arrested you." Gianni smiles at Addison.

"Really?"

The smile drops off his face. " _No._ You know what, lady, you are really making this too easy."

…which was part of the problem in the first place, Derek thinks, and Addison can probably tell what he's thinking because she kicks _him_ under the table this time.

...  
...

It's chilly enough that most people are inside. Or at least that's how it seemed, because-

...  
...

"Okay, enough. Get to the point or you can cool your heels in Rikers."

"No!" Addison leans forward hastily, almost slipping down her chair again. "Just give me a minute and I'll get there."

Officer Gianni studies her. "You ever been to Rikers?"

"No," Derek admits.

"I have," Addison says.

"Really. _You_ have," Reilly sounds very doubtful.

"Really. It was part of an outreach program for incarcerated pregnant and recently post-natal mothers. I'm a board-certified OB-GYN. Well, that's in addition to -"

"You can stop there, Addie," Derek mutters.

"She can go on," Gianni says.

 _She sure can._

"Then get _to_ it," Officer Reilly says sharply. "Get to the point."

"Okay. Okay." Addison takes a deep breath. "So the next thing that happened …"

" … was that this interview ended." The door to the interrogation room bounces open and a very familiar face crosses the threshold, suited and frowning and looking very official. "Sorry, officers. My clients are done here."

"Weiss!" Derek doesn't think he's ever been happier to see his old friend.

… even if his old friend looks like he's never going to let them live this down.

* * *

 _To be continued. Liked it? Want the next part? Ready to find out what Our Heroes did to deserve their arrest? Review! #addekrevolution_


	3. technicalities

**A/N: Thank you so much** for the awesome reviews and for enjoying a little lighthearted Addek silliness (and some sexiness) amidst all the angst we adore, but sometimes need a break from. I hope you enjoy this hugely long and rather ridiculous (but hopefully fun) Chapter 3. Let's be clear that this is a work of Thirsty Thursday lightheartedness. I do not own, nor do I endorse, any of the following: the Staten Island Ferry (including any alleged inappropriate behavior thereon), snarky law enforcement officers, acts of public indecency, Ponzi schemes, or pretzels. Happy Thirsty Thursday!

* * *

 **Six Miles High - Part Three  
** _Technicalities_

* * *

"The Staten Island Ferry." Weiss shakes his head once the three of them are alone, managing to look mournful and amused all at once. "I have a _lot_ of questions, believe me, but let's just start out with the first one. I'm sorry, but … _how_ exactly is the Staten Island Ferry sexy?"

"It's a ferryboat!" Derek sounds like the answer should be obvious.

Addison groans, massaging her aching head with both linked fists. Their old friend looks anything but convinced.

"But it's _orange_ ," Weiss protests, looking from Addison to Derek. "And I know it's been a few months since you've lived here, but neither of you has been out of the city so long that you've forgotten it's _the_ commuter vessel for law enforcement, right? … so maybe next time you want to get frisky you should stick to a water taxi or, I don't know, this is probably crazy, but … _a bed_? And not mine either," he adds hastily.

"That was one time, and we were house-sitting," Derek protests. "You specifically said _make yourselves at home._ "

"That's true." Weiss nods. "That's fair. I guess we wouldn't even have known if you hadn't left behind those handcuffs ... and half a pretzel."

"Sorry about that, man," Derek says seriously.

"What do you do with the pretzel, anyway?" Weiss wrinkles his nose. "You would never tell me."

"You don't really want to know, do you?"

"No, I guess not." Weiss sighs. "Look, don't get me wrong, I'm glad the two of you are … reconnecting, but that doesn't mean you have to go right back to getting naked in inappropriate places."

"We were not _naked,_ " Addison says with dignity, or as much dignity as one can muster when her wrists are still cuffed together, and not in the fun way either.

"Oh, don't go stealing all the good parts of my defense."

"Weiss," Derek says. "We're very happy to see you, really. But are you going to represent us? I mean, this isn't exactly your area…"

"Lewd and indecent? No. I mean, it comes up in the context of securities fraud, sure, but not quite so … blatantly. Usually. Nah, I called in a favor from a law school buddy, and he's on call, but … I had to see you for myself."

"Great," Addison mutters.

Derek leans forward. "Weiss … can you get us out of here? I mean, come on, they don't really have anything on us."

Weiss shakes his head. "Actually, they do. The two of _you_ are the ones who didn't have anything on."

"It's not funny," Addison grumbles. "And more importantly, it's not true! We were wearing all our clothes! Those people-"

"You mean the witnesses?"

" _Those people,_ " Addison repeats firmly, "blew it all out of proportion."

"Really." Weiss raises his eyebrows as he shuffled through the blue folder. "Let's see what we have here. Oh, look, here's a witness statement from a woman who chose not to give her name. I'll just read a highlight: _frankly, I was shocked – I thought that nice Mayor Bloomberg had cleaned up the city._ "

Addison snorts at this and Derek frowns at her.

Weiss continues as if he wasn't interrupted. "And here's another witness statement from … let's see, Mrs. Anne Roberts, of Willisburg, Ohio, who told the police – and I quote – _my ten-year-old asked me if they were making a baby._ "

"Not the way we were doing it," Derek mutters and Addison does her best to smack him with her cuffed hands.

" _Anyway_ ," Addison says with firm dignity, clearing her throat, "that just goes to show that abstinence-only education does more harm than good."

"Oh, I forgot you're a sex ed activist when you're not getting arrested for public indecency." Weiss rolls his eyes. "That's why you got naked on the ferry? To make a statement about policy?"

"I didn't _get naked._ "

"A technicality."

"People get off on technicalities all the time – don't you _dare,_ " Addison adds when Weiss opens his mouth. "Not every phrase is an opportunity for a dirty joke, you know."

"Clearly." Weiss sighs. "Look, I'm just giving you a hard time."

(There's a moment of silence as all three of them glance quickly at each other and decide to let the opportunity for a dirty joke pass.)

"Really," Weiss says kindly. "I mean, it's not like this is unprecedented. We can just add the Staten Island Ferry to the list of places you've gotten yourself banned." He shakes his head, ticking them off on his fingers in a rather judgmental fashion. "… there's the NatHealth skybox at Yankee Stadium … and all of section F at Yankee Stadium, which seems appropriate; the New York Public library – two branches to be specific; the _Homo Erectus_ exhibit at Natural History and that's too easy even for me to turn into a pun," he adds, "and the European Art wing at the Met; the Christmas Tree display at the Met, which I guess makes sense considering who we're talking about; La Grenouille – which reminds me, also the French Embassy … " he pauses. "I never did get the story there."

"I don't think you'd like it," Addison says hastily.

"You're probably right." Weiss clears his throat and continues. "Ellis Island," he wrinkles his nose, "okay, that one is just … _wrong_."

"We were on a research high," Derek explains. "We had just found the ship manifest for my great-grandmother Maloney. She came over here at sixteen, alone, from County Clare. Isn't that incredible?"

"Yeah, real American Dream stuff," Weiss mutters. "That's great, really, though I'm not sure which part of that story, exactly, was the turn-on?"

Derek sits up a little straighter. "Never mind," he says.

Weiss rolls his eyes. "You know what, Derek? I'm starting to think the real reason you took off to Seattle is because you'd already screwed your way through New York."

"No, I took off to Seattle because Addison – "

"Never mind, I already know," Weiss says patiently. "Now. Shall I continue?"

"Do we have a choice?"

Weiss shakes his head. "I bill out at 950 an hour and you're getting my services _pro bono_ here so … no, not really."

"Fine." Derek sighs. "Go on."

"Thank you," Weiss continues, clearing his throat, "so. As you know, you've also been banned from the Vanderbilt exit at Grand Central…"

"…that shouldn't count, that was after a weekend apart," Addison protests weakly, "and I was in the middle of-"

Weiss continues, speaking over her, "the first class cabin on National Airlines _and_ Cross-Continent Airlines."

"CCA went out of business," Derek interrupts quickly.

"Oh, that explains it," Weiss mutters. "And – let's be clear, these are just the ones I know about – but as I was saying: last, but not least … Temple Beit Ahavah in Edgemere, Long Island."

Derek winces a little at this one. "Sorry about that, Weiss. Your nephew's bar mitzvah was just … very moving."

"Understandably." Weiss lifts an eyebrow. "I guess I should add that you also still have lifelong restraining orders from both the Fleischer _and_ the Greenberg families."

Addison nods solemnly. "We take those very seriously, Weiss, we've towed the line, I promise."

"We never meant to cause any problems," Derek adds.

"Well, in your defense – somewhat – their sons did both say it was the best bar mitzvah they've ever been to, bar none." Weiss pauses. "Bar none, get it? That was Manny who said it. His grandfather was a Borscht Belt staple back in the day, I guess it's genetic. Look, my point is," he continues firmly, "it's 2006. You're actual adults. The two of you _need_ to stop getting naked in public."

"We _weren't naked_!" Addison hastens to defend herself yet again.

Weiss frowns at her. "You do realize your blouse is buttoned wrong."

"It's a confusing blouse," she offers weakly.

"You're a surgeon."

"I'm not a _blouse_ surgeon."

Weiss buries his face in his hands. "I defended Steer Capital _and_ Donny Watts – and this might be the first case where I have to step down due to ethical concerns."

"Really, Weiss," Addison says primly, "it's too cold to get naked anyway. Plus it was drizzling. There's no reason not to believe us."

"I might believe you … if I didn't know about the Rockefeller Center tree lighting, which I forgot to mention in my list."

"Lifelong ban," Addison sighs, "but … ultimately worth it, I would say."

"Agreed." Derek grins.

Weiss groans. "Are you _sure_ you guys didn't come back to New York because you got kicked out of Seattle?"

"Positive," Derek says firmly.

"We came for Derek's birthday," Addison reminds him.

"Yeah, that's pretty much the problem."

Derek hides a smile while Addison wrinkles her nose. "Look, I know we're easy targets right now – come _on,_ don'tturn that into a double entendre too – but can't you help us? I'm dying to get out of here and get clean. I mean _change my clothes,_ " she adds quickly.

"Okay, look." Weiss leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You keep telling me what you _didn't_ do. Are you going to tell me what you _did_ do?"

Addison and Derek exchange a glance. "Um…"

Weiss props his head in his hands again. "I know how you are with the details, so please. Spare me the more … colorful ones. Just give me the bare bones. In other words, try not to scar me unnecessarily."

"Okay." Addison nods. "We'll try."

…

 _The wind is whipping their hair, the sun is glowing and sinking at the same time, as the ferry makes its way across the water. Little salty droplets fly up and land on their cheeks; the air feels fresh and exhilarating as it only can on a ferry._

 _They're standing a respectable distance from each other at the railing, looking out at the endless blue-grey sea._

" _You know … I enjoy ferryboats in an appropriate, platonic way," Derek says softly, smiling respectfully at Addison._

" _I know. So do I," she agrees, smiling back at her husband with noticeable decorum._

" _That's convenient," Derek notes politely._

" _It is. Also, I notice you look somewhat attractive … which I can handle without losing control," Addison says._

" _I feel the same way," Derek responds._

" _Thanks, honey."_

 _Derek pats Addison's shoulder affectionately while keeping his distance. "Perhaps later we can engage in consensual marital activity," he suggests._

…

" _Consensual marital activity?_ How dumb do you think I am?"

"Weiss, you're the one who said we should try not to scar you!"

"Right. I didn't say you should tell me a fairytale."

" _Fine._ " Addison scowls and Derek glares at her. He should have known she would lay it on too thick.

"Okay. So what actually happened?"

"Basically that," Derek admits. "With a few tweaks."

" _Slight_ tweaks," Addison says defensively.

Weiss leans back in his chair. "Go ahead, then." He sighs and gestures for Addison to continue. "Tweak away."

…

 _The wind is whipping their hair, the sun is glowing and sinking at the same time, as the ferry makes its way across the water. Little salty droplets fly up and land on their cheeks; the air feels fresh and exhilarating as it only can on a ferry._

 _They're standing shoulder to shoulder at the railing, looking out at the endless blue-grey sea._

" _You know … I have a thing for ferryboats," Derek says softly, smiling at Addison with obvious intent._

" _Oh, I know. So do I," she agrees, smiling back at her husband and raising one eyebrow, an invitation if he's ever seen one. "And I also have a thing for you."_

" _That's convenient," Derek smirks._

" _It is. Especially when you wear blue … you know I can't handle you in blue," Addison reminds him._

" _Likewise," Derek responds, glancing down at the blue-patterned blouse visible between the lapels of her lightweight jacket._

" _Thanks, honey."_

 _Derek curls a hand around Addison's shoulder, moving closer. "I've always had a thing for ferryboats … but I wouldn't mind leaving the boat behind and heading straight back to the hotel after this," he whispers, "assuming we have time before dinner for-"_

…

"Okay, keep it PG, please."

"You said to tell you what happened," Derek points out. "We weren't exactly arrested for petting a puppy."

Weiss sighs. "Fine. R, but that's my limit." He looks from one of his friends to the other. "You know, it's too bad _R_ can't be _your_ limit, at least in public."

Addison winces a little; the man has a point.

"Go on…"

…

" _And after that … I mean, once we work the kinks out and make sure nothing's broken, then what?"_

" _After that? I'll need a cigarette, I think," Derek concludes; they're both a little breathless after spending several nautical miles describing in precise detail what they plan to do to each other in their hotel room._

" _Derek, you haven't smoked a cigarette since 1981."_

" _True. But if we're really going to do all that before our dinner reservation … I might have to break my streak."_

 _She giggles a little, then shivers._

" _Nervous?" he teases her._

" _Cold," she admits. The early spring weather is fickle, and her coat is light._

" _Here." Derek opens his own jacket and motions for her to slide in between him and the fabric like she used to. She slips an arm around his waist and curls in close to the warmth of his body._

" _Better?"_

" _Much." She hunches a little to warm as much of herself as possible, resting her cheek against his chest and listening to his heartbeat. It feels strong, steady …_

… _maybe a little fast._

" _Derek?"_

" _Hm?" He's been playing with her hair with the arm not inside her coat, toying with the ends of the long strands. It's an absent gesture, sweet even, but for some reason each light tug is sending prickles of sensation down her neck, over her shoulders, and…_

" _Nothing," she says softly, then burrows a little closer, shivering slightly as his fingers apply pressure to the base of her skull, working through her long hair._

 _He releases her hair and holds her tighter when she shivers. "It's not that cold, Addie."_

" _Who said I was cold?"_

 _She feels him smile into her hair. "You're right, I should have known."_

 _She wraps her arm more securely around his waist, ducking into his warmth, and they watch the water together, enjoying each other's company._

…

"Very sweet," Weiss says, sounding unimpressed. "Touching. Sav will love it. Funny, though, it doesn't really sound arrest-worthy."

"We told you we didn't deserve to be arrested."

"True." Weiss rubs the bridge of his nose. "You know who else says that?"

"Who?"

"Everyone who's ever been arrested."

Addison exhales heavily. "We're telling you the truth, Weiss."

"I believe you."

"You do?" Derek is confused.

"Sure. A little flirting and ferry snuggling? Easy to believe. Classic Derek and Addison."

"Addison and Derek," Addison corrects, shrugging when Derek glares at her in response.

"So yeah, I believe that happened," Weiss says. "But…"

Derek and Addison exchange a glance.

"…I don't believe for one second that's _all_ that happened."

"Oh," Addison says faintly. "Well, um…"

…

" _Remember the first time we took a ferry together?"_

" _Of course I do." She feels his lips move against her hair. "It was the Circle Line, during Getting to Know You week."_

" _We did get to know each other that week, didn't we." Addison smiles at the memory._

" _We certainly did. I'm not sure Columbia really meant us to take the title of orientation so … literally, though."_

" _Literally? You mean biblically."_

" _That too."_

 _Addison laughs. "We thought we were being so sly, in the upper wheelhouse by ourselves, but then Mark walked in and…"_

 _Her voice trails off and she feels herself tense, annoyed that she brought him up. When things were going so well._

" _I'm sorry," she says in a small voice._

" _So was he," Derek responds mildly. "I'm not sure he'd seen that much of me since we were changing our swimsuits in the locker rooms in Tadpole League."_

" _I meant –"_

" _I know what you meant." Derek exhales heavily. "And I know you're sorry. Look, can we just … move on? Not dwell on it? At least while we're here."_

 _Can they? Moving on is only all she's ever wanted since she landed in Seattle. "If that's what you want to do," she says tentatively. "I mean … it's your birthday."_

" _My birthday already happened … in an airplane bathroom," he reminds her._

…

"Wait, what about an airplane bathroom?" Weiss looks from one of them to the other.

"Nothing," Addison says hastily. "Forget it."

…

" _Actually, I was the only one in the airplane bathroom," Addison clarifies, "and you were waiting outside. Unnecessarily."_

" _Very necessarily," he corrects her, "on pilot's orders. You wanted me to start a fight with the pilot?"_

 _Addison recalls the tall, distinguished, grey-haired pilot. Broad shoulders under his navy blue uniform jacket, silver wings clipped to his lapel, a nice tan, probably from jaunts to the Caribbean when he's not flying cross-country…_

" _Addison," he says curiously._

" _Um. Sorry." She pats his hip apologetically. "I was just thinking it wouldn't have been so bad for you to start a fight with Captain Silver Fox."_

" _Captain Silver Fox." He shakes his head. "That's disturbing. You do remember your father's nickname…"_

 _She shoves him. "Don't be disgusting. The pilot is an actual captain. It's not some sailing nickname he uses to pick up girls."_

" _Fine, but you were just saying you wouldn't have minded … picking up that pilot."_

" _All I said was that I wouldn't have minded your wrestling him a little."_

" _Wrestling him!" Derek laughs, jostling her where she's pressed up against him, and she squeezes him a little tighter in response._

" _Yeah … wrestling him." She closes her eyes again, picturing it vividly. "You know, two glistening men, battling in a test of strength and wills. Mm, you know, like a … gladiator."_

…

"A gladiator?" Weiss makes a face. "Really?"

"I had more of a problem with _glistening,_ actually," Derek notes and Weiss nods in agreement.

Addison says nothing, just presses her lips together primly.

"Wait." Weiss points an accusatory finger across the table. "Is that why you and Savvy saw that gladiator movie four times?"

"What movie?" Derek turns to Weiss.

" _Gladiator,_ " Weiss says. "Really creative title, by the way. Would you believe Savvy told me she liked the historical context?"

Addison smirks.

"Honestly." Weiss shakes his head. "What's so great about those guys, anyway? Ugh, it's that one actor, isn't it. I can't remember his name. You know who I mean …"

…

"… _Russell Crowe," she reminds him, winding her fingers into his curls. "You know, with your hair longer like that, you look…"_

" _Yes, I remember your saying something about that." He pauses. "The pilot? Really?"_

 _She shrugs against him._

" _Hm. Good to know. Well, I'm sorry I didn't wrestle the pilot for you."_

" _Now there's a sentence you haven't said before." She smiles into the blue shirt she picked out for him, resting her hand higher now, against his heart. It's still a little fast, and she loves the way it feels against her palm. The top button of the shirt is open, and she can't really stop herself from tilting her face up to press her lips to the bare skin of his throat._

" _Addison…"_

 _But she feels the hum of his voice against her mouth and it goes straight through her body, all the way from her tingling scalp down to her toes, which curl-_

…

"Isn't toe-curling just an expression?" Weiss glances from one of them to the other.

"Not when Derek's involved," Addison smirks.

Derek grins at her. "Thanks," he says, sounding pleased with himself.

"Thank _you,_ " she replies.

"Okay, that's enough of that. Look, Derek," Weiss turns to his old friend. "Can't you just give me the facts, the – without all the embellishment and … girly things?"

"Girly things?" Addison raises her eyebrows. "That's sexist. I'm telling Savvy."

Weiss raises his eyebrows. "How do you plan to do that when you're locked up?"

"Oh." She considers this, and decides being nice to Weiss would be wise. "Honey, Weiss has a point. Why don't you take over the story."

"Fine." Derek shrugs.

…

 _He's standing innocently on the deck of the ferry, thinking about the tax returns he'll need to file in just about a month, when Addison, completely without permission or encouragement, shocks him by kissing his neck._

…

"Okay, stop right there. You can't tell it in a _totally biased_ way," Addison protests, looking to Weiss for support. "That's not fair. Right? That is completely self-serving. And not true."

Weiss shrugs.

"And anyway, we'd already moved on to the toe-curling … remember?"

"Fine," Derek sulks.

…

" _Addison, what do you think you're doing?" He draws back suspiciously._

…

"Derek, just tell the story straight," Weiss orders impatiently.

"No, it's okay, he really did say that," Addison confirms.

"Oh." Weiss considers this. "Playing dumb. I never knew that was your thing, Derek."

"I don't have just one _thing_ ," Derek says with dignity.

"I guess that explains all the places you're banned."

"Anyway," Derek says hastily, "I'll just, uh, go on with the story."

"Please."

…

" _Nothing," Addison says silkily. Her voice is that honeyed purr that she knows drives him crazy. She's not supposed to use it in public, not anymore. That voice is like a weapon and should be registered, holstered, maybe even banned._

 _Well. Not banned._

 _She smirks at him and then burrows back under his jacket again. "It's cold," she explains._

 _It's not. Under the jacket, it's getting quite warm, in fact. Maybe because Addison has pressed her lips to the skin between the open collar of his new shirt – again – or maybe because she's pressed her body against his –_

" _to get warm," she explains, unnecessarily –_

 _But either way, cold is the least of his problems. It's not his fault, really, it's that he was twenty-two the first time he felt Addison's body press up against his on a ferryboat, and the combination of the whipping wind, salt air scent, and her pliant, heated curves takes him right back with a rush of hormones._

 _He feels her laugh a little against him when he starts to respond._

" _So, should I assume you're happy to see me …are you just happy to see Staten Island?"_

" _I can't see Staten Island," he mutters as her hand lingers on his hip. "Not yet."_

" _Then I guess I'll take it as a compliment."_

" _Addison." He glances around. "We're not…"_

" _I'm not doing anything," she says innocently. "You're the one who can't keep it together on a ferryboat."_

 _It's her fault again because the word ferryboat slipping out from between her smirking lips sends a rush of heat through his body – or maybe it's her body; it's hard to tell whose is whose right now since they're so closely pressed together under one jacket._

 _Addison shift so she's flush against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He pulls the jacket tighter around both of them, but their new position isn't helping matters. Addison's height was always a bonus, since standing face to face made everything … line up so well, for lack of a more gracious term. But the last thing he wants right now, on a massive orange commuter ferry in broad daylight, is to 'line up' with the unmistakable source of the heat that's coursing through both of them._

" _Addie…"_

" _I'm cold again."_

" _You are not."_

" _So?" She tilts her head back, and he lowers his to kiss her without thinking._

…

"Did you ever consider that maybe _thinking_ a little more would have kept you out of jail?"

"We're not _in jail_ ," Addison reminds Weiss. "We're just in an interrogation room."

"Oh, that's much more respectable. My mistake." Weiss waves a hand. "Continue."

…

 _The wind picks up, lifting Addison's long hair and tangling it around both their faces. Kissing her was always a risk for a mouthful of hair, but it was always worth it, too. She's doing something with her tongue now that feels like she's touching him everywhere at once, and when he pulls her closer and her softness melts against him he realizes they need to take it down a notch._

 _He pulls away reluctantly; she makes a soft sound of disappointment._

" _Addie. Remember the Christmas tree lighting?"_

" _Of course I remember."_

" _We were never allowed back," he reminds her._

" _It was worth it, though."_

 _"Yeah, I guess it was."_

 _She glances at him._

" _No," he says firmly, and just then a few light drops start falling from the sky, and the deck empties, everyone else heading inside to stay out of the rain._

" _Derek …"_

" _No," he says firmly._

" _We're alone now."_

" _Just because we're the only ones willing to stand outside in the rain…"_

" _Maybe it's fate," she tells him. "It's meant to be."_

…

"You know, when Savvy said you were _meant to be_ , she was being sweet. She meant it in a … nice way. She wasn't giving you license to get naked in public."

"We _didn't get naked,_ " Addison insists tiredly, for what feels like the hundredth time. "Just listen ... please. We'll get there."

"Fine." Weiss glances at Derek. "Then what happened," he mutters, sounding like he would really rather not know.

…

" _That's not fair," Addison protests as she plays with the collar of his new shirt. "Yours is open more than mine."_

" _Always with the competition." He shakes his head._

" _Hey, no competition. You can win … as much as you want."_

" _Oh, really." He raises his eyebrows._

" _Assuming 'winning' is what you made me do in the hotel room, then … yes."_

 _A slow smile spreads across his face. "Actually, I won in the hotel room too, as I recall, so I think that's called a tie."_

" _A tie it is, then."_

" _A tie," he confirms, and then his lips return to the soft skin at her neck, his fingers flicking open the top few buttons of her blouse. "There. We're even."_

" _Hey." She pulls back._

" _Stay close," he warns her. "You don't want to get cold."_

 _She grins at him and steps back into his embrace; his coat is covering both of them as he dips her slightly with a firm hand at her back, cupping her skull with the other and exposing the tender skin of her throat._

" _It's not fair," she protests, gasping as his lips trail over sensitive skin._

 _He pauses. "What's not fair?"_

 _Her eyes look glazed. "I … don't remember."_

" _Thought so." He smirks and continues what he was doing before, pulling her in a little tighter so almost every inch of them is pressed together, concentrated softness every against him making his pulse speed up even more._

 _He flicks open the rest of the buttons._

" _Derek!"_

" _No one can see. See?" He pulls her open blouse closed._

" _Okay."_

 _Then he pulls her blouse open again and buries his face in softness without another word. She makes a sound that might be a protest but he can't really hear anything except his own heartbeat. Lace scratches his cheeks but it's worth it to feast on her while the cool wind whips their hair and light droplets fall around them. Her fingers are tangled in his hair now; he's taking on more of her weight as she softens against him._

 _When he draws back she looks disappointed, and he grins at her. Her blouse is hanging limply open, her cheeks are flushed, the rosy skin he's just been exploring bearing numerous testaments to his handiwork. Gently, he rubs his thumb over one of the reddened spots and she hisses, then smiles. Leaning forward, ducking into his open jacket, she trails both her hands down the still-closed blue shirt she bought for him and, staring right at him as her fingers fly, makes short work of his belt._

" _Addison," he says weakly._

" _It's okay," she murmurs. "No one can see."_

 _He's not sure that's true but he can't exactly argue, not when the rush of the speeding ferry is vibrating powerfully under his feet and her cool, competent hands are sliding into his waistband and –_

" _Addison!"_

 _She moves closer, if possible. "Don't worry," she says, her voice soothing while her hands are doing exactly the opposite. "We're the only ones out here."_

…

"Didn't you hear me say _stop_?"

"Oh. No," Derek says. "Sorry."

"I think I have the gist of the story," Weiss says stiffly, then sighs. "Does it, uh, does it get much worse?"

Addison and Derek exchange a glance.

"Not really," she says hesitantly.

…

 _It gets much better. With Addison's back to the sturdy railing and Derek's strong arms holding her tightly, his open trench coat hiding both of them, it's easy to curl one leg around him and let him rock against her in a way that makes her muscles tighten and her eyelids flutter uncontrollably._

 _One of his warm hands is traveling up her chilled thigh._

" _More lace," he observes when he meets resistance._

" _It's your birthday," she reminds him, her tone teasing._

" _Mm. Thank you, for that," he says, and brushes aside the scraps of fabric while she buries her face in his neck. Thank god for rain. And empty ferry decks. Because she's not sure if she could stop now if she wanted to, one of her hands wrapped around heated flesh – liberated just so from the fabric of his half-open trousers, they're still pretty much fully dressed._

 _He tips her head back, holding her carefully, but the thrill of feeling the open air behind her sends another flood of excitement through her body. The feel of his stubble against sensitive skin he's already marked is driving her crazy._

" _Derek … " she tugs on his hair and he suckles harder in response, making her gasp._

 _He looks up at her, grinning, and the lust in his hooded eyes goes straight through her._

" _Just … do it," she grinds out as his nimble fingers trace patterns on skin that's dying for more. Much more._

" _Just do it? That's not very polite." He lifts his head to kiss the tender skin on the side of her neck, first gently and then not so gently, and she hisses. "What's the magic word?"_

" _The magic word," she says doubtfully._

" _Yes, Addison." He grasps her thigh and lifts her a little higher against him; she sighs in anticipated pleasure but while she can feel him readying himself nothing more happens. "The magic word," he repeats, brushing against her just the slightest bit, which is cruel when he knows she's aching for more._

" _Please," she pants._

" _That's not it."_

" _What?" She lifts her head from his neck, confused. "Please is the magic word. It's always the magic word."_

" _If it were the magic word, wouldn't I be-"_

 _The blaring of the ferry's whistle drowns out his descriptive phrasing, but she hears enough detail to make her blush._

" _Derek … the whistle … the boat's going to dock."_

" _Not yet," he assures her. "We have time … if you tell me the magic word."_

 _"Derek!" She wriggles against him, trying to increase the friction she needs; he laughs and uses his free hand to pin her desperate hips against the railing. She groans. "You're really going to make me go all the way to Staten Island this frustrated?"_

" _That's the last thing I want," he murmurs against her neck, and she shivers. "So just figure out the magic word."_

 _Argh! She's going to kill him. One of his fingers is brushing against her now, too lightly to come anywhere close to satisfaction but enough to remind her what he's capable of, and it's killing her. She's going to die of sexual frustration and then she won't even be able to have the satisfaction of killing him for tormenting her._

" _Derek!" She curses audibly as one of his fingers curls against her in a way that's just cruel. She bites her lip to stifle a moan and sees the effect the noise has on him. So two can play this game._

… _except she doesn't want to play a game. Because the ferry is going to dock way too soon for her liking and they'll have to disembark and the idea of doing that before he finally joins their bodies, fills the empty space that's pleading for him, is too much to bear. He seems to sense her growing desperation because he's teasing her again, his heated flesh brushing against her, but he's still pinioning her hips so she can't draw him in where she wants him, and then his lips are on her neck again, and the scratchiness at the top of her body combined with silken steel teasing her at the center is too much, it's too much, she can't-_

" _Ferryboat!" She blurts, so loudly he jumps a little since his ear is so close to her mouth, but when he draws back he's grinning._

" _Very good," he says, "you figured out the magic word." And before she can respond he's lifted her leg higher around him and his mouth is on hers and –_

 _(finally, freaking finally)_

 _she sighs in exquisite relief as he pushes deeply inside her._

 _It's everything but it's not enough, all at once. "More," she begs, digging her heels into him and he lifts her other leg, bracing her hard against the ferry railing; she's going to have some interesting bruises later but it's more than worth it because in this position their bodies are basically one, she feels wonderfully, perfectly full as his hips move against hers like only his can, it's slow and deep and she lets her head dangle back over the railing, the breeze in her hair and salt on her face, it would feel dangerous except she knows he's holding her up. She knows he'll keep her safe. And her whole body is on fire; he knows her so well, he knows just how to tease her but also how to get it done when he needs to – efficient, that's Derek, when necessary, and just as she feels her muscles start to seize up, her shaking lips starting to form his name, an unfamiliar and deeply unwelcome sound rips through her reverie._

" _Help!" shouts a woman's voice. "Help! Coast Guard! There are … sex maniacs on this boat!"_

…

"So you see," Derek says meekly, "how it all comes back to wrestling.

"Oh, yeah." Weiss rolls his eyes. "It all makes perfect sense now."

"And you see that we never took off any of our clothes," Addison adds quickly.

"Yeah … not sure how much of a defense that is, Addie. Although, I will say I'm grudgingly impressed."

Addison shrugs modestly. "Not our first time."

"I'm aware," Weiss says grimly. Then he pauses. "I guess that's how Savvy…"

"Oh yeah," Addison admits with no small amount of pride. "I taught her how to do that."

Weiss considers this. "I'll wait to thank you until it's all over."

"Okay." She stares at her hands. "But Weiss, we weren't hurting anyone! Don't you see that if that woman hadn't screamed and called us sex maniacs, this never would have happened."

"Okay, first of all, I think it's more like if the two of you hadn't felt the need to get busy on a public ferry, this never would have happened. Plus … while that woman might have been blunt, be honest, Addie … was she inaccurate?"

Addison frowns and doesn't answer.

"So then you were arrested."

"By some very sarcastic officers," Addison says.

"Sarcastic? NYPD? I'm shocked," Weiss responds.

More sarcasm. They really are back in New York.

" _Anyway,_ we were arrested and they brought us here and … and now we might miss our dinner reservations!"

"Your dinner reservations." Weiss shakes his head. "That's your takeaway from all this?" He pauses. "Let me guess. You told the officers you need to make your reservation."

"I thought they should know!" Addison gives Weiss her most innocent smile, then sighs. "It's _Fourchette,_ Weiss. We flew three thousand miles for this."

"Really? I thought you flew three thousand miles to besmirch an innocent commuter vessel."

"We did not," Addison says with dignity, " _and_ it's Derek's birthday, and he shouldn't have to spend it behind bars."

"Look, I'll make you a deal. I'll do my best to get you out of here in time for your reservation … and the two of _you_ come to Sunday brunch tomorrow."

"What kind of deal is that? Weiss, how do you make the big bucks if this is your idea of negotiating?"

"We're on the same side here," he explains. "The thing is, Savvy really wants to see you. She misses you. And she wants you to come over for brunch like the old days: bagels, schmear, schmoozing…"

Derek agrees hastily before Weiss starts using Yiddish words he _doesn't_ know. "That sounds great. Yes. Of course. Right, Addie?"

"Right," she says immediately. "It would be great to see Savvy. And to see you somewhere, you know, a little more comfortable."

For a moment all three gaze around the cinder-block walls, stained linoleum floor, and harsh, eerily flickering fluorescents.

"Okay." Weiss puts both hands flat on the table then and pushes his chair back – wincing slightly at the noise. It's clearly not the top-of-the-line ergonomic setup he's used to at the firm. "I'll go talk to the officers."

"Great," Addison says warmly, "thank you so much. We'll just wait here for you."

Weiss has one hand on the door. "Um …"

…

"This is _completely_ absurd. And unnecessary," Addison calls, gripping the iron bars of the holding cell. "Do you hear me, officer? It's also outrageous."

"You tell 'em, sister," slurs the clearly drunk woman curled up on the wooden bench at the back of the cell.

"You don't understand," Addison explains to her … cellmate, reasonably. "This is all a mistake. See, I'm not supposed to be here."

"Yeah? Me either." Her cellmate stretches sleepily, which, in the strip of magenta fabric that Addison supposes was once a tube top doesn't leave much to the imagination.

"I mean, _I_ didn't do anything wrong," Addison clarifies, averting her eyes politely.

"Oh, you think I did?" The woman starts to sit up and Addison notices that she's quite a bit bigger than she originally thought, with some serious triceps. And deltoids.

"No, of course you didn't," Addison says hastily. "It's just … " She lowers her voice to a whisper. " _I didn't get naked,_ " she explains.

"You stick to that story, honey," the other woman mumbles approvingly, then slumps back onto the bench, her short skirt riding up so much Addison wonders if she might get arrested a second time.

"Hey! Is anyone out there? Can you let me out, please?" Addison tries to rattle the bars but apparently that's only in cartoons; these bars are rock solid.

"Would you keep it down in there?" An officer she doesn't recognize ambles over, glaring at her.

"But I shouldn't be locked up," she protests.

"Riiight, you're the first perp who's ever said that. Let me just get my keys," he says sarcastically.

"I am not a _perp_ ," she corrects him with dignity. "I'm a surgeon."

"Yeah?" He looks her up and down. "Remind me to stay out of your hospital. I'm not sure it's … _sanitary._ "

"I wasn't naked!" she calls after his broad retreating back, annoyed that she can hear him chuckling. Must _everyone_ think the worst of them?

She wonders how Derek is doing. The men's holding cell is around the corner, so she can't see him. Hopefully he's faring better than she is.

…

"Now _that_ one probably needs some follow-up," Derek says tiredly as he examines his fifth mole on his second stranger since the iron door swung shut, trying to keep his distance from the bare skin in front of him. "The other one looks fine. But remember, I'm a neurosurgeon, not a dermatologist."

"Thanks, doc." The other man pulls up his pants. "It's great having you around for those hard-to-reach areas."

The third man, some of whose moles were quite difficult to find in the midst of impressive hirsutism, nods enthusiastically.

"Yeah … great," Derek echoes weakly.

"Hey, what are you in for, anyway, doc? You writing bad prescriptions?" The hirsute man looks worryingly eager. "You got anything on you right now?"

"No, and _no_ ," Derek says hastily. "I'm in here because … well, it's all just a big misunderstanding."

"What a coincidence," says the less hirsute man, "that's what I'm in for too."

"Me too."

Derek sighs, peering through the bars hoping for a glimpse of Weiss coming to rescue him. Of course, he reminds himself nobly, he hopes Weiss will rescue Addison first if it comes to that. And he reminds himself to tell Addison that too, later. After all … it's probably what a gladiator would do.

…

Addison looks up excitedly at the sound of footsteps. The uniformed officer is unsmiling, which worries her, but then he jangles a large keyring as he rattles the lock on the iron door.

"You're letting us go?" Addison asks hopefully. _Thank you, Weiss. I guess they don't pay you the big bucks for nothing, even though it's pretty ridiculous that you make more than Derek when he actually opens up people's brains for a living, but if you can get us out of this…_

"Go?" The officer smirks. "No. Well. _Go_ back to the interrogation room, yes."

At least it's better than nothing, and definitely better than the holding cell, although now she'll never get to hear the end of her cellmate's story about the rave in Red Hook where three different guys-

"Addie! Are you okay?"

She gives Derek her bravest and most noble smile as he catches up to her in the hallway, like the kind of strong but sensitive maiden a gladiator would kill another gladiator to win. "I'm okay, honey. I mean, it was tough in there, really tough, but I just kept telling myself that-"

"You were in a holding cell for twenty minutes, Addison." Weiss rolls his eyes, hustling them both down the hall to the interrogation room behind the uniformed officer. "Maybe hold off on practicing for the inspirational talk show tour."

" _Fine_."

In the doorway to the unfortunately familiar box of an interrogation room, Addison glances nervously at the handcuffs dangling from their chaperoning officer's belt.

But the officer just nods at Weiss and leaves them alone, closing the door behind him.

"No handcuffs?" Addison asks brightly.

"No … but don't tempt me," Weiss says when he sees Addison tuck her hand into the crook of Derek's arm, leaning against him with relief.

"Sorry," she says quickly, pulling back. Weiss might be a _teeny_ bit sensitive, but he's being such a good friend that she'll let it slide.

"So." Addison leans forward, elbows propped on the table. "Did you get us a deal? Did you plead us down?"

Weiss lifts an eyebrow.

"I used to watch some _Law & Order _in the lounge when I was on overnight call," she admits. "It was good background for studying."

"Oh. Well. That explains a lot." Weiss leans back in his chair. "What I was able to get you is a desk appearance ticket."

"Like a traffic ticket?" Addison asks eagerly.

"Sort of ... but not quite. It means can get out of here as soon as you sign, and you're free until your court appearance. Which is a week from Tuesday."

Addison's eyes widen. "But we're supposed to fly back tomorrow."

"You turn down the DAT, you get city hospitality until your arraignment." Weiss gestures around the interrogation room. "You want to sit here another twenty hours, and then show your face in court looking like that?"

"Hey." Addison frowns. "I don't look that bad."

"You look great," Derek assures her, and she smiles at him.

"I thought you were dying to get cleaned up," Weiss reminds her. "Let me tell you, the showers where they'll send don't exactly have Kiehl's products."

"Weiss," Derek cuts in hastily. "It sounds like this is the best alternative to …" he pauses. "Well, to just letting us go."

"They were never just going to let you go."

"Don't they have bigger crimes to worry about? Terrorists?"

"Why don't you ask them that," Weiss proposes wearily. "I bet they'd love a little triage advice from you."

Addison presses her lips together. "Okay, fine. I'm just saying, Weiss, you kept a man who constructed an entire fraudulent scheme over twelve years out of jail, but we still get a desk appearance ticket?"

"How did you know about that?"

"Savvy sent me an article about it," she shrugs. "That was a good picture of you."

"Oh." Weiss looks mollified. "Well. That was nice of you to read it. And anyway, he was arraigned. Trust me. And just so you know ... even Club Fed doesn't have Kiehl's products."

"Okay. Desk appearance ticket. Court date next week." Addison winces, but does her best to square her shoulders bravely. "We can do this. And, um, at the court appearance…"

"My buddy will be there. I will too, but trust me, he'll get you off. Two surgeons with no record – well, no public one anyway? You'll be fine. But you'll have to stick around until your court date."

"Okay." Addison exchanges a glance with Derek. "We can do that ... right?"

He nods.

"Good," Weiss says, "because I had to convince the officers you weren't a flight risk, even though you have round-trip tickets."

"I'll change the flights."

"As soon as you can, please."

Addison smiles with relief at Derek. They can do this. Okay, it's an extra … nine days in Manhattan, but if it means their charges will be dropped and, most importantly that they won't have to spend any more time in their respective holding cells, then it's worth it.

"And listen. This is important. One of the conditions of getting out of here is that you have to stay out of trouble until then," Weiss instructs them. "Any funny business and that DAT disappears and you're right back here."

"We'll be good," Addison promises hastily, and Derek nods vigorously with the expression of a particularly pious altar boy. It's nine days. And they're not _criminals._ They're highly respected, (mostly) law-abiding physicians.

This will be easy.

"And, hey, guys –" Weiss puts out a hand to get their attention. "That means no taking off, opening, moving aside, or altering your clothing in public, and it also means that any and all sexual activity is to be strictly confined to the _indoors_ … with the doors locked."

… okay, maybe it won't be that easy after all.

* * *

 _To be continued (of course). If you enjoy this highly self-indulgent and silly alternate Addek universe where Our Babies are ... well, sex maniacs ... then please let me know. I'm getting a kick out of this storyline even though it's not exactly what I intended when I wrote the first chapter on a plane! So now they're stuck in Manhattan for nine extra days. What do you think - should I continue? Do you want to see if they can stick to the conditions of their release?_

 _PS to those of you who asked in reviews, it's all silly and tongue in cheek, so feel free to imagine either that the flashbacks are much more graphic than what Addison and Derek are actually saying to people ... or that they're not, because Addek can't seem to help themselves._


	4. old friends

**A/N:** Thank you so much for the awesome reviews and for indulging this silly, sappy, _slightly_ filthy story. Happy Thirsty Thursday to each and every one of you and please remember to feed your author, who had to squeeze this chapter in under the wire so also pretty please forgive any editing errors! Usual warnings apply, that is: this is insanely shameless and so am I. Enjoy...

* * *

 **Six Miles High - Part Four  
** _Old Friends_

* * *

 _Dear Richard,  
A funny thing happened on the way to Staten Island._

Ugh, no, that's terrible. She deletes it.

 _Dear Richard,  
So, you know how people are always talking about work-life balance these days? Well, Derek and I need to take at least seven unscheduled days off. Maybe eight. For … normal reasons._

No. Delete again. She presses her thumb to the backspace key and makes another poorly worded draft email disappear.

 _Dear Richard,  
"If you can make it there, you'll make it anywhere," except in our case we did make it here but we're not going to make it back to Seattle for a week and a half. Ironic, right?_

Delete, delete, delete. If for no other reason than she's not sure she's using _ironic_ correctly. And this isn't the type of email she's going to run by Savvy, her personal word usage guru.

 _Dear Richard,  
I'm sorry to tell you that Derek is in the hospital. It's serious, life-threatening, but he should make a full recovery by the 11 a.m. flight next Wednesday._

No, that's cruel … and pretty ridiculous too. Delete.

Okay. Maybe honesty really _is_ the best policy. Richard's been encouraging them to work on their marriage, hasn't he?

 _Dear Richard,  
How serious were you when you said you hoped Derek and I would 'make every effort to reconnect'? Because, funny story –_

"Addison!" Derek snatches the blackberry away from her; he's apparently been reading over her shoulder. "That is _not_ what you're telling Richard."

"Fine," she snaps. "You write the email, then. Go ahead and tell him two department heads need eight days off with no notice for _no_ reason. That'll go over well."

"Just tell him we need to take time off."

"Oh, really? Thank you, Derek, I never would have thought of that."

His brows knit. "For someone who was begging me for it about, oh, three hours ago, you seem pretty pissed off at me now."

"I wasn't _begging_ you for it," Addison corrects him. "I was being polite."

"Polite!" He chuckles. "So that's your story. I'm sorry, did I miss the chapter in Emily Post where she talks about having sex on a ferryboat?"

Addison stands up to her full height. "I'm not going to argue about this."

She's tired. Too tired to argue with Derek. After Weiss mercifully secured their release, he insisted on escorting them personally back to their hotel in a cab – sitting between them, and keeping up a running monologue about a nasty abscess on a rather personal part of his father-in-law's person, presumably to ensure neither Addison nor Derek found anything erotic about their journey.

(Unfortunately for Weiss, he may not have realized that doctors are immune to attempts at medical gross-outs. He did figure it out eventually, though, hissing into Addison's ear at a stoplight that she was not in fact caressing _Derek's_ calf with her bare foot. Oops.)

Weiss said his farewell to them in the lobby, reminding them to behave – if not until their court date, at least until tomorrow morning. "Savvy's looking forward to seeing you," he reminded them. "Don't disappoint her by ending up in the clink again, because – _Addison,_ " he said sharply. "I can _see_ you."

"Sorry," she muttered, withdrawing her hand from Derek's back pocket, and they promised Weiss they'd be good as they darted into the lobby and managed to make it back to their room without violating the terms of their parole. And then she'd gone straight into the bathroom to wash every drop of their run-in with the law from her body.

One thing's for sure … she has reason to be exhausted. And it's not just jail. There was the flight, with the unnecessarily judgmental flight attendant. And then the carefully planned ferryboat ride ruined by some overreacting bystanders and overzealous cops. But of course, there's also jail.

 _Jail._ Addison shudders a little.

"I'm going to take a shower," she tells Derek.

"You already took one right when we walked in the door."

"Well, I need another one. Derek … _jail,_ " she adds when her husband looks skeptical.

"Fine," he shrugs.

She tightens her robe and heads for the bathroom, then turns around. "Well, are you coming or not?"

"Based on your mood … I'm thinking not," he mutters, but he grabs a towel and joins her anyway.

…

"I thought you were mad at me," Derek says as he opens the bottle of shampoo.

"I am," Addison confirms, tilting her head back under the hot spray.

"Then why-"

"I still need someone to wash my back."

"And what do you do when I'm not here, Addie? Just let the filth build up?"

"Very funny," she glares.

"Oh, right … I forgot what you _actually_ do when I'm not here. You find a replacement."

He regrets it as soon as he says it – they've been getting along, for them, absolutely swimmingly since they landed in New York.

Now Addison looks hurt when she turns to him, though the effect is somewhat lost by the comical amount of suds in her hair.

"I thought you were done taking cheap shots at me."

Derek hesitates, then reaches out to swipe a dripping gob of bubbles before it gets in her eyes. "Sorry. I guess I wasn't done."

He urges her back under the water, feeling a little bad, and moves his fingers along her scalp while the jets make short work of the remaining suds.

"Thanks," she murmurs when he's done, sounding almost shy.

(Which, considering what they've been doing – and talking about doing, and thinking about doing, and trying to do – since they left Seattle, is pretty impressive.)

"You know what we should do – we should send Weiss flowers," Addison says abruptly.

Derek's face must show his confusion; he'd expected her to finish that sentence with something a lot more graphic.

To say the least.

"He rescued us," Addison reminds him. "Plus, he apparently hasn't forgotten that we had sex in his bed."

"We were house-sitting."

"And at his nephew's bar mitzvah."

"We were _celebrating._ "

"And in his car."

"He doesn't seem to know about that," Derek says hastily, "but really, he's complicit in that one – why else would you buy a Ferrari?"

"Because boys like to waste money on sports cars?"

"Yes, but _why_ do they like to waste money on sports cars?" He raises his eyebrows; Addison rolls her eyes in response. "See, it all comes back to-"

"Yes, understood, no need to spell it out." She hands Derek a jar. "Are you going to wash my back or not?"

She moves her wet hair off her neck so her entire long back is exposed, from the nape of her elegant neck to the dip at base of her spine before the flesh curves gently outward, and-

"Derek."

"Right," he says quickly. "Washing."

Of course it's Addison, so it can't be actual soap or anything normal, it's a glass jar of palest green – something, and when he unscrews the top and scoops out a few fingerfuls it already starts dissolving. Hastily, he applies whatever-it-is to her back and her skin is almost immediately covered in plush suds that smell of lemongrass and sage.

"More," she urges.

He avoids saying _that's what got us into trouble in the first place,_ and just complies.

To prevent an argument.

That's all.

Not because her skin is satin underneath the outrageous foaming of whatever is in that jar; there seem to be tiny crystals within it that leave her even silkier than she was before. Not because of the little breaths that escape her, audible somehow under the pounding water, when his fingers dig into her sore muscles. Not because of the way she arches her back and presses her flesh closer to his hands, the word _more_ without speaking, and-

"Ow!"

"Sorry." He pulls his hands away immediately, then returns them carefully, to her back, curious about what made her so sensitive.

"Funny story," she says, sounding like it's not very funny at all, "I had a run-in with a ferryboat railing."

He winces, running his fingers very lightly along the bruises that have already started to form. "You should have told me."

"No."

"Why? I would have stopped."

" _That's_ why," she turns to grin at him. "I didn't want you to stop. Hey – don't feel too bad yet, honey. You may be more injured before the night is up."

He smiles back. "We should pace ourselves," he warns her when he sees the intent in her eyes. The suds are all gone now but the shower is filled with fragrant steam and pounding water, and it's distracting. _She's_ distracting.

"Why?" Her lower lip extends the barest fraction of a millimeter, not enough for anyone else but him to call a pout.

"Because I'm not a machine," he says patiently.

"Really?"

"Addison…" She has that look in her eyes that suggests she's up to no good, and she crosses the vast open shower alcove to snatch something from the shelf. "Wait. What are you doing with my towel?"

"Folding it," she says cheerfully.

She is, indeed, folding it – which doesn't exactly make anything she's doing clearer – and then she's setting it in a soft, wet rectangle on the floor of the shower, and now she's sliding down his body until she can rest her hands on his thighs and –

 _Oh._

"See?" She draws back and touches her slightly swollen lips; for a moment they're twenty-two in medical school again. "I told you we don't need to pace ourselves."

"You win," he concedes, sliding his fingers back into her wet hair.

When she's finished and he's mentally thanked every overprivileged jerk at the country club on whom she practiced to develop such … impressive … skills, he pulls her gently to her feet, then encourages her to sit on the higher of the two shower benches.

She flinches at the cold marble, then seems to appreciate its contrast with the streams of hot water.

He notices that the skin on her knees is reddened and he massages it gently with his thumbs, then lifts her thighs slightly so he can lean forward to kiss each kneecap gently.

"War wounds already," he observes, and she smiles. "I thought we were going to limit injuries."

"We could buy some knee pads."

He shakes his head. "I don't trust us to make it out of the store, and Weiss says we can't screw – I mean, screw up – again."

"Oh. That's a good point."

He's gone from soothing the skin on her kneecaps to massaging her thighs.

"Derek…"

"Why should you get to have all the fun?"

…

It's a good question. And it's not one she has time to contemplate, because her skin is already tingling at the contrast between the cold marble seat and the hot stream of water pulsing around her, and then his lips are cold but his mouth is warm and he's trailing kisses along the inside of her thighs.

She should stop him, because they need to get ready for dinner, and she's not exactly getting closer to ready this way.

He pulls her forward, steadying hands along her hips, the outside of her thighs, and then urges her legs further apart.

She's certainly not going to stop him now.

And even though she's never fired a gun, she's pretty sure she'd shoot anyone who _tried_ to stop him now.

Her head falls back against the marble wall and she yelps.

He looks up, and the lust in his eyes is almost enough to drive her over the edge. "Keep going," she pants.

"Your head…"

"I'm fine. I know a neurosurgeon who can look at it later. _Keep going._ "

"Bossy," he scolds her, and she just smirks, hoping she's not concussed or at least, if she is, that she can stay conscious long enough to …

He's the one to yelp this time.

"Sorry," she squeaks.

"Just leave _some_ hair on my scalp, please," he mutters, and she tries not to smile at his watering eyes.

"It's your fault for torturing me," she says defensively.

"Then I guess it's worth it," he shrugs, and before she can come up with a retort, much less utter one, he's returned his warm lips to her flesh and the power of speech suddenly seems way beyond her.

She manages to gasp his name. "Derek – the – reservation," she pants the words; only the incredibly hard to get table at _Fourchette_ could be worth breaking her reverie.

"Don't worry. I'm on top of it."

That rather _is_ what she's worried about – or that he'll end up on top of _her_ anyway, and they'll miss the reservation, but then her returns to feast on her.

And she realizes that in this position he can hold her in place, the marble of the shower keeping her from bucking away, and it's agonizingly pleasurable and erotically efficient all at the same time. She's well aware of his skills in this department, but adding in time management is enough to make her swoon.

As in … _swoon._

She blinks back to reality to see him looking smug, stroking her legs and smiling lazily.

"Don't be _too_ pleased with yourself," she frowns.

"True." He drops a friendly kiss on the inside of one thigh and then smirks when she shudders. "Clearly, we're just getting started."

She straightens up as much as she can. "What happened to _I'm not a machine?_ "

"I'm not," he says. " _I'm_ not," he corrects. "You might be. I don't know. I'm still testing that hypothesis. I'm a _scientist,_ " he adds with dignity, standing up enough to kiss the side one breast and then suck pebbled flesh into her mouth – this time, remembering to cup the back of her head so she doesn't bang it into the marble behind her.

She analyzes his inflection as best she can when her whole body is still tingling from what he did to her. Cautiously flexing her cramped toes, she looks up at him from under her wet hair.

"Reservation," she reminds him.

"Right." He lifts her down from the ledge, holding her against his body for just a moment, but it's enough for a flicker of excitement to be awakened in him.

"Derek…"

"Sorry." He sets her down on the fluffy white bathmat. "I'm leaving before I cause any more problems."

She smiles at him as he walks out of the bathroom, the muscles in the back of his thighs flexing, and above them …

"Derek!" She grabs a towel and jogs after him. "Wait for me!"

He turns around with a quizzical look on his face, just in time for her to tackle him to the rumpled white sheets.

 _Dear Michel,  
I hope you know how much I appreciated your securing us a table at Fourchette for dinner tonight. Unfortunately, due to truly shocking unforeseen circumstances far beyond our control_

Too flowery. Delete.

 _Dear Michel,_  
 _Please accept my apologies for missing our reservation tonight. We are devastated. My husband had to perform a top-secret emergency surgery on a visiting diplomat_

No. Too easily figured out. And maybe a little too James Bond-ish, too. Mm, James Bond. She pauses for a moment to imagine Derek twirling a smoking pistol and sliding into an Aston Martin. In a tux. Then she forces herself to focus.

 _Dear Michel,  
I feel absolutely terrible that we missed our reservation. I know that whoever took our table was very lucky and we certainly hope that_

"What?" She looks up when she sees Derek reading the blackberry over her shoulder.

"Nothing," he says. "Just … you don't really _look_ like you feel terrible."

"Oh." She's still sprawled out on the vast white bed, the sheets of which have at this point passed from _rumpled_ to _disarray beyond repair._ Her thighs are parted to bring a much needed breeze to fiery skin, her head is resting on Derek's bare chest, and she can't seem to keep her lips from curving upwards.

"You're right," she admits. "I'm lying. I don't feel terrible. Isn't that terrible? We flew all the way out here for the reservation and I don't even feel terrible. It's terrible, Derek. Do _you_ feel terrible?"

"Addison." His hand is resting on the top of her head. "The word _terrible_ has lost all meaning. Plus, you're doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you babble after …" his voice trails off.

"You love the thing!"

"The thing is inconvenient when you're trying to be quiet and subtle."

"We don't have to be quiet and subtle. We're in our hotel room."

"Oh. That's right." She wriggles around to see that Derek looks relieved. "You know, maybe Weiss had a point about this sticking to private spaces thing," he says.

A knock on the door interrupts them.

"Ooh, room service is here. Finally. I'm starving." Addison bounds out of bed and heads for the door.

" _Addison,_ " Derek hisses at her retreating back. "You are _naked._ "

"I am?" She glances down. "Oh. I am. I didn't notice."

"Well, I think whoever is at the door will notice, so would you please…"

"Yes. Of course." She grabs one of the terrycloth robes they discarded earlier, reveling for a moment in the softly thick fabric – and reminding herself to leave an excellent review on _Thousand Count Sheets,_ her favorite prestige hotel booking site.

"Madame," the man says, looking, Addison thinks, rather judgmental. Perhaps he's one of those men who thinks woman should only consume salad, and thinks their order of steak frites, champagne, and strawberries is overly indulgent.

(Or maybe it's the extra-large bowl of freshly whipped cream they ordered on the side.)

Either way, she tilts her chin up and maintains her dignity as she signs for the tray, then gestures for the waiter – who is young, and smirking quite unfairly – to bring it in.

Derek is sitting up in bed, the covers pulled to his waist, and smiles weakly at the waiter's knowing gaze.

"Shall I leave the tray here, Madame?" The waiter gestures with his chin toward the bed.

The nerve!

Addison is about to tell the waiter where he can put the tray – or at least that he should put it on the table _and_ he should respect his elders – when she realizes that she does actually want it on the bed.

Damn it. Must she be so transparent?

"Yes, that would be fine. Thank you," she responds coolly, hoping she's not blushing too visibly.

"Will, uh, will that be all, Madame?" The waiter's gaze flickers from Derek, propped up in bed, to Addison in her robe. She tightens the sash self-consciously.

"My husband is ill," she says as authoritatively as possible.

"I'm terribly sorry. Would you like me to summon a doctor?"

"No," Addison says hastily, "that won't be necessary."

"The hotel offers _exclusive_ concierge medical services to our guests."

"I believe you," she assures him, "but he'll be fine. Really."

"If you're certain," the waiter says, scanning Derek from the top of his violently mussed hair to the white-knuckled fingers clenched on the duvet. "He does look rather … worn out."

"Nope, he always looks like that." Addison smiles in what she hopes is an innocent, convincing way, ignoring Derek's glare, and grabs the leather booklet to sign for their meal.

…

"Why did you have to stay in bed all … furtive when he came in?" Addison accuses as soon as the door closes, mercifully, behind the waiter.

Derek finds his gaze flicking downward, feeling a bit embarrassed.

" _Seriously_?"

"Seriously," he admits.

"Why?"

"What kind of a question is that?"

"It's an _I'm Not a Machine_ question."

"I think it's … your hair, actually."

"My hair?" She glances in the mirror. "What about it?"

Derek twirls a finger, indicating she should turn around, and she does, peering over her shoulder …

… at the biggest rat's nest he's seen in her hair since the third night of their honeymoon.

Gingerly, she pokes at the complicated snarl.

"You could have warned me."

"You were already opening the door; you barely managed to cover your-"

"Fine," she cuts him off, then covers her face with her hands. "Oh, god. He clearly thought we were sex fiends."

"I have a piece of paper that says that's exactly what we are."

"No. We haven't been convicted yet." She shakes her head. "Our standards have really slipped."

"So has your robe," he points out, and she looks down to see rosy skin peeking out from one lapel. "Ugh!" She reaches to tighten the sash but he covers her hand and somehow the robe falls open even more.

Smiling, she eases back down onto the bed, letting Derek skim the rest of the robe from her shoulders. He kisses the side of her neck as she leans over him, the non-snarled part of her hair brushing his bare chest.

He closes his eyes.

And she apparently takes advantage of that, because the next thing he knows something cold and sweet is pressing against his closed lips. Automatically, he parts them, and the juice of a perfectly sweet strawberry explodes into his mouth.

Silently he thanks Addison for her ridiculously expensive taste in hotels – he's pretty sure their room service bill is going to approach four digits, but it's worth it for whatever intensely environmentally unfriendly process brought them these perfect strawberries out of season.

Slowly, he finishes the strawberry and waits for her to withdraw the stem, then sucks the juice from her fingers, enjoying the sound of her indrawn breath.

"We should eat the steak before it gets cold," she says.

"Really?"

"Nah." She takes another strawberry from the crystal bowl and this time she nibbles herself at the tip before her parting her deliciously mobile lips. Watching the fruit disappear between them then her tongue swipe at a fleck of juice is awfully distracting.

 _Terribly_ distracting, even, if the word hadn't lost all meaning already.

She missed a drop of red juice, he notices. It drips slowly along her jaw and then falls to her collarbone. He tugs her forward and makes short work of it with his tongue, then reaches for another strawberry, plucks off the stem, and places the pointed tip in her mouth. She smiles around the fruit and then gasps a little when he leans forward to suck the other end into his mouth, kissing her around the shared berry – first gently, then more fiercely, strawberry sweetness bursting into both their mouths.

"Mm." She grins at him when he pulls back. "Delicious."

"My thoughts exactly." He laps a little extra juice from the corner of her mouth, then kisses her again. Reaching for the cut-glass bowl of freshly whipped cream, he scoops a small amount onto his finger.

"Stop-"

"Really?"

"We should put down a towel."

"I'll be careful," he promises.

"Derek, the last time you said that, I had to get an emergency pregnancy test at the university clinic."

Ignoring her protest, he eases her gently away from him and then dabs a fingerful of whipped cream on each of the rosy buds that keep catching his eye, taking his time to lick each one clean so thoroughly that you could perform surgery on her chest.

Her eyes flutter when he finishes. "Still want to stop?"

"No," she admits. "Ass," she adds, glaring at him.

He responds by popping open the champagne – which makes her shriek – and pouring a small amount of foaming bubbly liquid into one of the flutes on the tray. "That language. From a _lady._ We need to wash your mouth out with champagne, I think."

"A _lady_?"

"You weren't one in the shower, that's for sure," he agrees cheerfully, and when she starts to retort he holds the flute to her lips; she relents and takes a sip. Then he does. Then he sucks her champagne-cold tongue into his mouth, and she tastes fizzy and exciting. He grabs another berry and offers her a bite; when she's nibbled off the tip, he trails the succulent open end of the berry across her lips, then down her jaw, her neck, over her collarbone –

"Derek, I'm getting all sticky."

"Good," he deadpans, "but is the strawberry juice bothering you?"

"Very funny."

He takes advantage of her parted lips to pop the rest of the strawberry into her mouth, and then cleans up the sticky juice from her impossibly soft skin. He spends a lot of time on her neck, nipping at the spot he knows drives her crazy and sliding his other hand down the soft curve of her waist to hold her in place.

"Enough teasing," she says finally, pulling back.

"I don't think so." He raises his eyebrows.

"Well, I do," she insists.

He considers her words. "I guess we're at an impasse, then."

She folds her arms. "I guess so. Derek, what are you –"

He's lifted the tray from the bed easily, placed it on the ottoman of the nearby chair, and then pounced onto her. "Let's wrestle for it."

She laughs in spite of herself, and he lets her gain a temporary advantage, enjoying the feel of her flexing muscles as she presses herself against him, and then flips them both over, stretching her arms over her head and pinning her wrists.

"You were saying?" He drawls.

"That's not fair. You outweigh me."

"There's a steak and a bowl of whipped cream waiting for us that could change all that."

She giggles, and he dips his head to kiss her. She turns her head away. "No more teasing."

" _Lots_ more teasing," he corrects her. "I won fair and square."

"Fair and square, is that what they're calling it these days?"

He takes advantage of her turned head to kiss a trail down her neck, shifting her wrists to hold them in one of his hands and freeing the other to trail lazy circles down her side.

She hums with pleasure, her hips rising to meet his, and he doesn't protest when she curls a leg around his waist and tries to draw them closer.

He doesn't help either, and he laughs when she wriggles with frustration.

"Be patient."

"You know I'm bad at that!"

"You're _Addison Shepherd,_ " he reminds her. "You're not bad at anything."

She seems slightly mollified by this, though she gasps when he dips his head again, this time taking a rosy nipple into his mouth. He slides his free hand under her back, lifting her against him so that he's surrounded by softness, and then releases her wrists to palm her other breast. She's still arching up toward him, trying to find the friction that he's denying her. He presses her hips back to the bed, grinning at her.

"You're enjoying this," she accuses him.

He glances down. "I guess I can't deny that."

"Sadist." She tries to trap him with her powerful thighs and he pulls away just in time.

"Masochist," he teases, flipping her over and straddling her hips, then sweeping her hair aside to suckle at the base of her neck.

She groans into the pillow and he takes pity on her; instead of laughing at her, he removes his weight from her body and then, without discussion, urges her thighs apart and plunges two grateful fingers into heavenly, welcoming warmth.

"Derek!"

"Yes?"

"How about a little warning?"

"This whole weekend is a warning," he points out.

She can't seem to think of an argument. "Fine," she huffs, "just don't stop."

"Bossy," he says again, twisting his fingers and making her gasp. "Bossy, bossy, bossy." He punctuates each iteration of the word with a nip at the sensitive skin of her neck, and she twists under him, straining backwards against his hand.

"Derek, I swear to god, if you don't finish what you started, I am going to set an alarm for the middle of the night and cut off every single-"

A loud knock on the door interrupts her colorful threat; they jump apart.

"Who's that?"

"I don't know," she hisses.

"Derek and Addison Shepherd?" A voice calls. "Please open the door."

"Oh god. It's the cops, isn't it," she moans, and he regrets the high ceilinged acoustics when the sound of his fingers withdrawing seems to echo around the room.

She winces, then starts laughing, then winces again. "Oh god. We're going back to jail."

"Let me at least wash my hands first," he says and she shoves him, catching him off guard and making both of them laugh again.

"Derek and Addison Shepherd!" The voice is louder now. "I must insist that you open the door."

"Coming!" Addison squeaks.

"Not anytime soon, at this rate," Derek grumbles, but he tosses Addison her robe and heads to the door with her, ready to protect her from the oversized brutes waiting, no doubt, to muscle them into submission and-

-and the door opens on small, wiry man in spectacles, wearing an obviously expensive suit and carrying a large leather bag.

Derek is so surprised that he steps back and the man seems to take it as an invitation.

"I'm Dr. Palsgraff, the hotel's concierge doctor," he says, extending a hand. "You can call me Dr. P."

Derek hastily shoves his own hand into the pocket of his robe.

"We're germaphobes," Derek mutters, blushing.

"Very wise, with all the communicable diseases around." Dr. P nods approvingly.

Addison has already extended her own hand, and she hastily sticks it back in her pocket.

"Can we help you?"

Dr. P looks from Addison to Derek and then past them to the chaos of the vast, messy bed, and then to the ottoman where the large bowls of strawberries and whipped cream are visible. Finally, he glances at the tangled piles of Addison's hair.

"I was told one of you is ill," he says, "and I wanted to check on you."

"Oh." Derek remembers the overzealous waiter. "We appreciate your concern, but we're fine."

"Physical health is nothing to take for granted," Dr. P says. "It's important to follow up on any symptoms."

"We're doctors," Addison says impatiently. "And we're very busy, so if you don't mind-"

"Wait." The doctor is looking at them with a curious expression. "Derek and Addison Shepherd … doctors … did you go to Columbia?"

They exchange a nervous glance. "Yes," Derek admits tentatively.

"Of course! I remember you! Don't worry," he adds at their blank expressions, "You wouldn't remember me. I was two years behind you, but I was part of that orientation group that was touring the library and found you two in the stacks with-"

"I remember," Derek says hastily, adding a quick Hail Mary that cell phones hadn't yet been invented then, so none of the witnesses could actually _prove_ what they saw.

"So you're still together, after all those years? Oh, that's so sweet. I'll have to tell my wife. She thinks romance is dead. She's my third wife," he adds, "but I really think this time she's the one."

"How lovely," Addison says drily. "So, as you can see, we're perfectly healthy…"

"Tell me," Dr. P says urgently, leaning forward. "What's your secret?"

"Our secret?" Derek takes a step back.

"For spicing things up. Keeping the flame going. Something I can use to spice things up with Bridget."

"Oh. Um. Well, you need to … put each other … first," Addison says hesitantly.

"Really? I thought you always wanted to come first." Derek gives Addison an innocent smile.

"Are you complaining?"

The concierge doctor looks far too amused.

"I'd advise paying attention to her," Addison says coolly. "You know, act like you're interested."

Derek shoots her an annoyed look. "Don't forget to rely on close friends to help keep your relationship … dynamic."

"We try to keep a nice work-life balance. You know, not working too late."

"Sometimes we come home early," Derek adds, gritting his teeth. "Too early."

"Oh." Dr. P.'s head moves from one of them to the other. "Well, if you're sure you don't need any medical care."

"Not right now," Addison says sweetly, then leans closer to Derek to whisper, "but you might later, for priapism. The painful kind."

She has to muffle a shriek when he slips his hand under her robe to pinch her in response.

"Don't hesitate to call if you need anything," Dr. P. says warmly. "And-"

"Oh, we won't," Addison ushers him toward the door. "Thank you so much."

"I can't get over how little you've changed since medical school," Dr. P. says from the doorway as Addison all but closes the door in his face. He glances at her. "Can you still get your legs all the way-"

"No," Addison says hastily.

"Yes," Derek says at the same time.

The concierge doctor's mouth drops open and Addison starts talking before he can. "Yoga," she says hastily, "ignore the feel good-breath-y stuff and focus on the flexibility. Tell your wife."

"My wife?" He looks confused.

"You said you wanted tips to spice things up with Bridget."

"Oh! No, Bridget isn't my wife. My wife's name is Rochelle. Bridget is my girlfriend."

" _Good night._ " Addison closes the door firmly, then turns to Derek, who starts laughing helplessly; before long, she joins him.

"So." He glances at her. "You want to see if all that yoga paid off?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

…

 _Dear Weiss,  
We thought you'd be glad to know that haven't left the hotel room all night. That's how seriously we take our case, and how grateful we are to you for helping  
_

"But we told him the reservation was incredibly important," Derek points out. "We're going to look flaky."

"I think we have a lot bigger problems than looking flaky," Addison grumbles, but she obligingly deletes the draft, and tries to come up with something more serious.

 _Dear Weiss,  
Please accept this email as confirmation that we are in compliance with the terms of our agreement, forthwith and hereinafter known as_

"What's with the lawyer speak?"

"Weiss will like that. He's a lawyer. Plus, it shows we take this seriously."

Derek considers this. "Maybe just stick to the basics."

 _Dear Weiss,  
Mission accomplished, at least for tonight. See you tomorrow for brunch. Looking forward._

"Much better," Derek says approvingly. "You do know, though, that brunch means you have to keep your hands to yourself for a few hours."

"I can do that!"

"Oh, really."

"Yes," Addison says firmly. "My hands will be busy with my bagel and schmear."

"That didn't stop you from-"

"Please don't bring up Savvy and Weiss's engagement brunch."

"I wasn't going to. I was going to bring up-"

"And I beg of you, don't say the word _bris_. The mere thought of it is enough to give me performance anxiety."

"You? Performance anxiety?" She grins. "I'll believe it when I see it."

"Well." He sounds rather pleased with himself. "The point is – what?" he asks, seeing Addison's expression.

"Nothing," she says hesitantly. "I was just remembering Savvy and Weiss's housewarming weekend in the Hamptons."

Derek winces. "I'd forgotten about that."

"Really? Even though you still have that scar?" She brushes her fingers against the slightly raised skin on his thigh, so small you'd miss it if you didn't know him really well.

 _Extremely_ well.

Derek shrugs. "I guess I told so many people I slipped getting into a kayak that I actually started to believe it myself."

"Do you think Savvy and Weiss believed it?" Addison asks seriously.

The corners of his mouth twitch. "No, I don't."

"You're probably right." She flops back against the fluffy pillows, enjoying the feeling of the crisp white sheets. "Derek … why do they still talk to us?"

"Honestly?" Derek lies back and folds his hands behind his head, the picture of satisfaction. "I have no idea."

* * *

 _To be continued! Next chapter, brunch at Savvy and Weiss's. Can Addison and Derek keep behaving? Thank you for reading and if you're on board with Thirsty Thursdays, pretty please review and let me know!_


	5. alarms

**A/N:** Oh hey, remember this story? The one I wrote _and_ posted on a cross-country flight, about shameless sex on a cross-country flight? Sorry not sorry? Anyway, it's back. You ever have a really busy day with tons of work so you just write ten thousand words of smut with a teeny smattering of angst? No? Just me, then?

I hope you enjoy ...

* * *

 **Six Miles High, Part Five  
** ** _Alarms_**

* * *

The alarm clock wakes Addison from deep, dreamless, and thoroughly satisfying sleep the next morning.

"Mmph," is her response, as she reaches over to press the snooze button.

Well.

The Shepherd Snooze Button, as they've always called it.

Their morning routine for years, right up until they stopped waking up together whenever they could, included a very … personalized alarm clock.

Which is easy if you know exactly where the other person's … alarms are.

But every alarm clock needs a snooze button, so traditionally, to get more sleep, one only had to reach over and press the button.

Well.

Press _something_ , anyway, and Addison's alarm clock – her very warm, very living, very nakedalarm clock yelps when her fingers skate over his snooze button.

"Five more minutes," she pleads.

"Then you shouldn't have pressed the button," he says, sounding both amused and even a little sympathetic.

"That's not how most snooze buttons work, you know," she pouts.

"Well. We're not _most_ snooze buttons."

This is fair.

She relents, not because he has a point but because he has warm, skilled hands that are running down the side of her body, waking her up in a way that silences any protests she might have had.

"How did you sleep?" he asks, pulling her close.

She inhales deeply – he smells so familiar here, and different from the trailer, as if New York City itself has gotten back into his pores.

"I slept pretty well."

"Pretty well?" He tugs lightly on a strand of her long hair. "I had a front row seat and I would say you slept like a kitten."

"Like a kitten?" Addison frowns. "Is that a thing?"

"Sure it's a thing," Derek says. "Like a kitten. You know … stretched out … taking up most of the bed … self-satisfied … scratched me a couple of times."

"Derek!" She takes a mock-outraged swing at him, which he deflects neatly by pulling her on top of his body.

She lets him pin her arms – putting up a token protest mainly because her wriggling and his subsequent subduing brings all the best dips and curves of their bodies into close contact.

"Do kittens do this, though?" she purrs into his ear, letting her fingers trail down his body.

"God, I hope not," Derek says, and she laughs against his neck.

"Okay, look. I appreciate that you brought our old alarm clock – "

And then her voice is muffled when he flips them over, balancing on his forearms above her with both eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappear into his very tousled hair. "Old alarm clock? _Old_?"

"I didn't mean it like that! And anyway, we're the same age."

"Oh, but we're not," Derek points out. "My birthday was yesterday, and you still have two months of being thirty-eight before you're – "

"Old?" she asks innocently.

And not so that he'll tickle her in revenge.

That would be silly.

Still, it's Derek's birthday weekend, so she lets him – he's _fast_ , with those very well-trained fingers and she thrashes and shrieks underneath him until he stops, very suddenly, right at the edge of discomfort.

"How do you do that?" she asks, when she has her breath back.

"Do what?" He's settled on his side next to her now, lazily strumming his fingers along her bare hip.

"Know just when I – I mean …"

Her voice trails off; she finds herself a little embarrassed.

Tactfully, Derek prevents her from having to finish the sentence by kissing her, first with gentle lips and then more probing ones.

Then he draws back and looks at her. His eyes are bright like they are in the early morning, that particular color of blue when he's … well … turned on (which differs from the shade of blue right after he's … well … finished).

For a moment he's gaze turns so intense it almost takes her breath away.

"You're my wife," he says quietly. "That's how I do it."

She feels tears spring to her eyes.

He doesn't question them or shush her, just kisses the moisture that gathers and then pulls her on top of him again, holding her close. She melts against his body, arms and legs draped over him like a blanket. For long moments – she's not sure how long, since her alarm clock is currently underneath her, his inhales and exhales her own as well – they just lie there quietly. Derek's familiar fingers trail down her spine. It's soft. It's soothing.

Very soothing.

…

With Addison's body draped over his, he can feel the exact moment she crosses the feathery boundary between awake and asleep. He couldn't say exactly how, if someone were to ask, but he knows all the same. He's felt it countless times. Maybe it's the soft warm weight of her growing a little heavier, or the change in the way she's breathing against his neck.

And even though his alarm clock is currently covering his body and slumbering peacefully, he knows they don't have that much time to get ready for Savvy and Weiss's brunch.

And they can't be late.

Not this time.

Not when Weiss is judging their every move (at least their every move toward each other, anyway).

"Addie," he says quietly against her hair.

Nothing.

"Addison." He rubs circles on her back first gently, then more firmly when she doesn't wake up.

Still nothing.

He's trained, too, to sleep whenever possible – anyone who makes it through residency can say the same – but this is ridiculous.

" _Addison._ "

He shakes one of her shoulders, and then the other.

Nothing!

Finally, running out of options, he sits up just a little, raises his right hand, glances at his open palm, and then brings it down hard on one bare cheek.

"Ow!"

Addison is definitely awake now, scrambling off him and kneeling up on the mattress, rubbing the skin he's just marked. "What was that for?"

"To wake you up."

"Well, it hurt! Couldn't you just – wake me up some other way?"

"Believe me, Addie, I tried."

She glares at him, still rubbing the sore spot. He feels a little bad now, but also defensive. She's making a pretty big deal out of this for someone who so many times in the past has –

But he's not going to throw that in her face.

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely. "I just know you don't want to be late to Savvy and Weiss's."

"That's true." She looks somewhat mollified.

Feeling hopefully, he reaches for her free hand and gently tugs until she's lying against his side again. He skims one hand down the curve of her back, over the soft roundness of –

"Ow!"

"Sorry," he says again, hastily. "I'm trying to help," he adds.

Rather grudgingly, she settles back down.

He skates his palm very carefully over the spot he marked – it's significantly warmer than the surrounding skin – hot, even, glowing against his palm. So lightly he's practically not touching her at all, he runs his fingers over it – once, another time – in softly concentric circles, soothing its soreness.

"Better?" he asks after a few moments.

"Better," she agrees. She leans up to kiss his neck, he palms one smooth thigh, and then she's on top of him again. Their lips meet, and she smiles against his mouth.

"Derek?"

"Yeah?"

"I'd really like to, um, hit your snooze button right now, but I think you're right that we need to get ready for brunch."

He reluctantly agrees, even though he immediately misses the warm weight of her body when she hefts herself off his.

"Derek?" she says again.

"Yeah, Addie."

"Just to be clear, you do know I'm not opposed." Her hand drifts over her hip again, settling over the warm patch of skin he marked. "I just like a little warning, that's all."

And with that, she slides off the bed and glances over her shoulder at him, lashes lowered. With her back to him, his eyes are drawn to the red palm print on one perfectly shaped cheek.

He swallows hard, certain it's audible.

Then again, he's only human.

"A little warning," he repeats, his mouth drying as she smiles, slowly, over her shoulder.

 _God,_ the way her mouth moves is just …

"Right," she says briskly. "Like, for example: finish taking a shower in three minutes or … else," she proposes. "That would be a little warning."

"But you've never taken a three-minute shower in your – _oh_ ," he says, realization dawning, as she flashes him another grin and then sashays into the bathroom without another word.

…

Okay, _now_ they need to rush.

Breathless, disheveled – but showered, with clean bodies if not minds – they stumble around the hotel room with bits of clothing in their hands, struggling to get ready in time.

"This is too – ugh." She tosses aside a shirt he doesn't recognize. "I'm going to wear the white shirt," she announces.

She always does this, as if he's going to object or suggest something else. His critique of her wardrobe is limited to gaping about its prices and complaining when pieces of it are hard to strip off her body when he's trying to get her naked.

"The white shirt sounds fine," he says, since she's waiting. "But – I wouldn't wear white pants," he adds lightly, feeling his cheeks flush at his own innuendo.

She grins at him. "Whose fault is that?"

"Whose idea was it?" he counters.

"Fault and idea aren't the same thing."

"That's not – " He stops, because he's not going to win this argument. Neither of them wins these arguments. In the best of times, the arguments just turn into sex, and while he can't say he any objection to that in principle, he does in practice. Because they're going to be late if they spend any more time on activities that aren't designed specifically to get them to Savvy and Weiss's apartment.

Addison just turns her back, leaning to the ground with agonizingly purposeful slowness to pick up one of her shoes. Hungrily, he watches the white lace of her panties stretch over the rosy ( _very_ rosy, he wasn't kidding about the white pants) curves of her –

"Derek."

"What?"

"Get dressed," Addison says firmly.

But she's not that cruel, she does pause for a kiss, and she doesn't protest when both his hands slide over the seductive curve of her back to cup the lace-covered flesh he can't resist. The skin he finds is glowing with heat, sensitive to his touch, and when she gasps against his neck the warm suction goes right between his legs.

"Addie…"

"I know, I know." She pulls back, then purses her lips. "Oh, Derek," she says, sounding somewhere between disappointed and resigned.

Defensively, he holds the shirt she picked out over the evidence of his distraction. It's hardly his fault! "Oh, Derek, _what_?" he asks, frowning.

"You know what." She frowns. "Well, fine. I can't leave you hanging," she says briskly. "It wouldn't be polite. You haven't really given me any choice here."

"Addison, you're the one who got us into this. You're the one who kept saying …" His voice trails off as her cool fingers take the shirt from his hands.

"I'm the one who got us into this. With my big mouth, you mean?" she asks, her voice a dangerous purr.

"I didn't say that."

"Mmm. You hinted at it though. So let me get us out of it, then," she says, her palm cupping him, stroking confidently in a way that's going to make it impossible for anything except –

"Addison!"

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," she says innocently, and he watches with pounding pulse as she drops gracefully to her knees – no one can make that move quite like Addison – and rests her hands on his thighs.

She tips her head back to gaze up at him, long hair dangling down her back, and her big blue eyes staring up at him from that position are almost enough, alone, to drive him over the edge.

" _Addie_ …"

"It's okay," she says, stroking his thighs and inching closer. "Relax, honey. My big mouth got us into this, so I think it's only fair that it gets us _out_ of this too."

He opens his own mouth to respond but his words are swallowed when her mouth engulfs him.

He doesn't try to speak again.

…

"See? That didn't take much time at all," she says primly, taking advantage of his limply dangling hands to pull herself back up to her feet. Derek is still standing in the same position she left him, looking dazed. He hasn't said a single word since she first slid her lips around his heat. The closest he's come since then is a couple of gasping breaths and a soft sigh-like thing when she finished lapping up any trace of their encounter from his softened flesh.

 _Oh._ She kind of gets the kitten thing now.

Is it kind of sexy, or kind of gross? She's not sure.

The line can be so thin …

Oh well, she'll think about that later.

Now, she just kisses him – his eyes are glazed, but his lips tug toward a smile.

"Derek …"

"Hm?"

"Get dressed," she says, tossing him his shirt.

And then she heads for the bathroom to brush her teeth, knowing perfectly well she's giving him an unimpeded view of her new white lace panties.

And what they're covering up.

Sometimes it's worth paying top dollar for underwear, she decides, as she brushes her teeth with one hand and uses the other to massage the sore flesh she teased him into marking.

That's going to feel amazing later, she's well aware from experience. It will … marinate, so to speak, during brunch, and then by the time they come back to the hotel for uninterrupted, uncensored, no-holds-barred –

"Addison!"

"What?" she calls through the bathroom door.

"Can I get in there?"

 _Unfortunately, not until later._

…

Somehow, they make it out of the hotel room. It seems the universe wants to help them, because the elevator arrives with merciful swiftness, right before Derek is about to lose his internal battle _not_ to press Addison against the modern glass walls of the elevator bank and taste her smirking mouth.

Sighing – it may not be a pyrrhic victory, but it's certainly a phallic one – he holds open the elevator door for her.

Which, though gallant, is also stupid because the swing of her hips slows time down enough that the elevator beeps with loud outrage and he nearly gets crushed in the doors.

"Honestly, Derek," Addison scolds, but she looks flattered.

Inside the elevator, he's just about to give up trying to stay on his own side when the doors open and two women who look about ten years younger join them, complaining loudly about the early start to their day.

They're separated now by two other bodies, but Addison smiles at him from across the elevator. First it's in a friendly way, and then not so friendly.

One of her hand – the left, her rings reflecting the light – tucks a few strands of long red hair behind her ear.

Fine. That's just pragmatism.

Then it strokes along her jaw, which is –

Defensible, he supposes.

And over her neck.

Plausible deniability in hard, but he's willing to –

No, he's not, because now that same hand is pausing at her throat to toy with her necklace, and she's tipping her head back against the elevator's glass wall, exposing her long neck, and maybe he should have exercised his marital couture veto for the first time on the white shirt because the thin material is straining against her breasts or her breasts are straining against the material and –

"Are you getting off or not?"

Heat rushes to his face. One of the women on the elevator is looking at him curiously.

Oh god – are they associates from Weiss's law practice, here to spy on him?

"Yes, we're getting off," Addison says smoothly. " _Derek_ ," she hisses. "We're in the lobby."

Oh, _that_ kind of getting off.

Of course.

He makes a hasty exit, waiting until the women have passed them before he hooks a finger into the waistband of the slim fitting pants he assumes Addison has selected to torture him, and tugs her away from the hotel's revolving glass doors.

"What?" she asks, looking first innocent and then a little nervous.

"That was a dirty trick in there," he tells her.

She seems to be losing the fight to look innocent.

"Are we going to keep it in check for Weiss and Savvy or not?"

"We are," she assures him. "It's just …"

"Just what?"

"Your shirt," she admits, blushing. "It's blue."

"You're the one who told me to – " he looks down. Damn it.

"You _know_ what blue shirts do to me, Derek."

"You're right, I do. Nothing good has ever happened when I wear a blue shirt."

"On the contrary …" A slow smile tugs at her mobile mouth. "But I take your point. I'll try to do better, okay?"

"That's all I'm asking," he says, mollified.

"And if I don't," she adds, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow as they approach the glass doors, her voice dipping into a throaty whisper, "you can just punish me later."

So much for doing better.

" _Addison_ ," he scolds, but she just disappears into the revolving door before him and he has to watch the seductive lines of her body all the way around and around and around …

"Sir, you missed the exit," the bellboy says helpfully.

" …thanks."

"Derek, what took you so – oh!"

She gasps a little as he pulls her against his body. Her eyes widen with surprise, and then darken with lust.

Her insatiable drive is funny, usually, but this is getting a little ridiculous.

Except …

"Honey, is that your … alarm going off?" Addison asks innocently.

"Okay, that's enough," he says, willing the part of his body that can't seem to remember it's not a teenager sometimes to behave itself. "We said we were going to keep ourselves in check, so let's do it."

"Or what?"

"Or nothing," he tells her firmly, trying not to let his face show his amusement at the disappointment in her eyes. "Come on, Addie, Weiss is doing us a favor. Let's try to do what he wants."

"Fine, fine." She sighs. But her expression is troubled.

"What is it?" He waits for her to look at him, tilting his head a little.

"I just … want to talk," she says in a small voice.

"Talk?" Any lingering arousal fades at that word, in that tone. "Why?" he asks warily.

"Why? Because you react like that when I say _talk._ " She takes a deep breath. "Honey, believe me, I am not complaining about how we spent last night … or this morning … but I was just hoping we'd get to talk this weekend."

"We will," he assures her. "And we have talked," he can't help adding. "Not every talk has to be a capital-t Talk."

"No, I know that, it's just – "

She stops talking, looking a little embarrassed.

He gazes over her shoulder, out the glass doors onto the street where the sun is reflecting off the buildings and he can hear the bellman's whistle.

He does know what she means. But the idea of a capital-t Talk makes his stomach tense up. It reminds him of awkward silences in the trailer and resentment in the halls of the hospital. He doesn't want to be reminded of those things.

"Addie … let's just go see Savvy and Weiss, okay?" He keeps his voice gentle.

"Okay," she says quietly.

"Good." He releases her and nods to the waiting bellman, who whistles up a yellow cab.

"Ooh, do you think there'll be lots of traffic?" Addison asks eagerly, apparently back to her good – or at least randy – mood, one of her nimble hands snaking toward the collar of his blue shirt.

He quickly snatches her hand away and opens up the front door of the cab, to the driver's surprised dismay.

"Can I sit up here?" he asks bluntly.

"No," the driver answers … bluntly.

"Why not?"

"What do you mean, why not? You ask if you can sit up here, I say no. No."

He tries not to notice Addison's smirk.

"Sir," Derek says with dignity, "can you please reconsider?"

The driver rests a hand on the wheel and studies Derek for a moment, looking unimpressed. "Ten dollars," he says.

"What? Ten dollars to sit in an empty seat? Forget it."

"Fine. Twenty."

"That's not how bargaining works!" Derek protests.

"You want to sit in the front or not?"

"Yes," he mutters, fishing in his wallet for a twenty and handing it over, feeling positively fleeced.

But then he watches Addison slide grumpily into the back of the cab, wincing a little as the seat of her pants makes contact with unforgiving vinyl, and a flood of uncensored memories tells him it's worth twenty dollars for the bulletproof plexiglass barrier between them.

Still.

He buckles his seat belt and waits for the driver to pull out into traffic – which he does with no small amount of brake-riding.

Ugh. He hasn't missed cabs.

And twenty dollars! He's annoyed all over again as the driver stops at a red light. He glances in the rearview mirror to see Addison smirking at him. With her right hand, she makes the gesture for _money_ and rolls her eyes.

Then she starts to make another gesture –

And he quickly turns away from the mirror.

"What's wrong, Derek?" Addison asks innocently from the backseat.

"Nothing." But he can't resist continuing. "I mean, it's fine. Twenty dollars. It's just that I've heard of paying for sex but paying for _not_ sex is ridiculous."

"Oh, really? What have you heard about paying for sex?"

The driver interjects. "Men always pay for sex," he observes, shaking his head. "One way or the other."

"Ugh." Addison gives the seat in front of her a kick; Derek frowns at her.

 _Cut it out,_ he mouths.

"Derek. _Derek._ "

"What?"

"You're not going to disagree?" she asks, pointing to the driver and apparently losing any pretense of subtlety.

"The man has our lives in his hands, Addie," he protests.

"Fine!" Addison flops back against the seat and folds her arms over her chest. "Then you should probably get used to paying for sex, Derek, because the free stuff is about to dry up!"

"See," the driver says, with a knowing nod. "We all pay for it."

Derek winces.

The rest of the cab ride to Savvy and Weiss's apartment is relatively uneventful; Addison spends it muttering in the backseat and Derek spends it trying to avoid the driver's knowing gaze in case it makes Addison even angrier.

Finally, they pull up next to the familiar navy awning of Savvy and Weiss's building.

Addison hastens out of the cab after a few choice words for the driver.

Derek follows her, then leans into the open window to settle the bill.

"Don't you dare tip him," she tells Derek, who ignores her.

"I have a tip for you, sir," the driver tells him darkly. "Happy wife, happy life."

"Oh, that ship sailed a long time ago," Addison snaps. "That _ferryboat_ , I should say."

"And my tip for you, madam," he says, turning to Addison, "is – "

"Okay, thank you!" Derek interrupts before any more damage can be done, adding a hefty tip in the hopes it will get back to the city that's trying to throw them in jail. He pulls Addison back from the cab and closes the door with finality.

On the sidewalk in front of Savvy and Weiss's building, he lets her huff about the driver for another minute while he puts his wallet away and then calls her name to get her attention.

"What is it?" she scowls.

"Get it out of your system, Addie, so we can go inside."

"It's out of my system," she responds primly, "and so are you."

"Oh, really?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, really! I told you, the free stuff is drying up, so you can just get really familiar again with your right – Derek, what are you doing – "

He's reached out a hand to brush a strand of long hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering at the curve of her neck that never fails to make her melt.

Never. Not even now, while she's clearly fighting it; her eyes flash with annoyance, but she can't seem to help her physical reaction, practically purring at his touch.

He withdraws his hand.

"Yeah … I'm not too worried," he says smugly.

Then he muffles her outraged response with a quick kiss. "Come on, Addie, let's go inside. Our friends are waiting."

…

Waiting indeed.

The door of their apartment is a wide open welcome by the time Addison and Derek get off the elevator, the doorman having called up to announce their arrival.

"Addie!" Savvy practically launches herself at Addison, then stops before they can embrace. "Are you okay?" she asks worriedly. "Did the police hurt you? What about the corrections officers?"

Derek sees Addison draw a breath, most likely preparing to spin a very self-serving tale.

"She's fine," he says quickly.

Addison glares, but it's true. Her most notable injuries as far as he can tell are bruising on her back from the ferry railing, some redness on her knees from her activities yesterday and today, and the marks she practically begged him to leave on her this morning.

"Good," Savvy says, looking a little uncertain. She settles for a kiss on the cheek for both of them. "I'm so glad to see you."

"So are we. And thank you again, Weiss," Derek says meaningfully, glancing at his old friend. Weiss looks wary, his arm around Savvy, apparently afraid Derek and Addison are going to jump each other right in the hallway.

(Fine, they considered it. And they're not naïve enough to think the door was only open as a welcome. He's perfectly aware that Weiss thinks they need supervision.)

And this is only proven when their friends beckon them inside.

After the obligatory ooing and aahing over the typically inviting spread, Derek can't help but notice that the décor is … different.

Savvy and Weiss have opened both leaves of their enormous dining table so that instead of a cozy brunch for four – or even a generously-sized spread for oh, six or either – there's a vast table with one chair at either end, and one across from each other in the middle, with room for several minyans in between.

"Weiss." Derek frowns. "Why are we reenacting the dining room scenes from _Citizen Kane_?"

"We're just trying to help you keep some distance," Weiss says defensively.

" _Some_ distance, sure. But does that really mean one of has to sit in Toronto?"

"I'll sit in Toronto," Addison offers, giving Derek a look that suggests she hasn't forgiven him for the cab ride. "Canadian men are … well, Sav, you remember."

Savvy giggles, and Weiss and Derek both glare.

"I'm probably going to be a free agent soon," Addison says casually. "So I wouldn't be opposed to another trip to Canada."

"You are not going to be a free agent soon." Derek rolls his eyes. "And you should probably hold off on planning any trips until you're allowed to leave the state. She's upset because of a cab driver," he tells Weiss and Savvy.

"I'm _not_ upset," Addison says with dignity, accepting a cup of coffee from Savvy. "But if I were, I would be upset because of a sexist cab driver, and my husband didn't try to defend me."

"Derek." Weiss frowns. "Is that true?"

"It's … biased," he says finally, after discarding several potential responses that would just sound worse.

"It's true, Weiss," Addison says. "You would never let a cab driver talk to Savvy like that."

"Like what?" Savvy asks with interest, returning from the kitchen with a cup of coffee for Derek.

"This coffee is delicious," Derek says quickly, ignoring Addison's glare, and Weiss picks up on the hint and helps him the change the subject.

He doesn't miss Addison's expression, though. He can read her like an occasionally x-rated (fine, more than occasionally) book, and her message is very clear:

 _This isn't over._

…

Derek closes his eyes, lost in sensation.

He's trying to maintain decorum, but it's too hard, even knowing how important it is to Addison that this act is done quietly.

Sometimes something is too good for decorum.

Too distracting.

Too … earth-shattering.

"God, that's good," he moans, unable to help himself.

"Derek." Weiss sounds concerned. "Are you all right over there?"

"I'm fine," he says quickly, setting his bagel down on his plate. "I just haven't had a decent bagel in a while."

Savvy looks amused.

But in fairness, it's really an excellent bagel. The texture is perfect. _Perfect._ And the combination of fresh cream cheese, impeccably cured lox, ripe tomato, spicy red onion, and a smattering of dill is incredible.

He's missed bagel brunches at Savvy and Weiss's.

Smiling at his friends, he takes a dignified sip of water and goes back to – quietly – chewing his bagel.

Across the table, where Addison has been placed about ten feet from him, he sees her lift one long finger to her mouth and delicately lick off a spot of cream cheese from her own bagel.

 _Damn it._

Of course she's not going to make it easy.

(And he knows what Weiss would say: _making it easy_ it what got the two of you into trouble in the first place.)

He also knows Addison would never lick her fingers clean in public – she still visibly flinches when someone goes for the wrong fork at dinner, which he's fairly certain is down to his mother-in-law and equally certain it was the right choice to minimize contact with Addison's parents.

But table manners are one thing. Even impeccable ones.

And torture – apparently she's still upset over the cab driver – is another.

"Oh!"

He glances up. Addison is apologizing to Savvy, who's dashing into the kitchen and returning with clean dishtowels, while Weiss heroically saves the platter of smoked fish.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so clumsy," Addison says, staring with dismay at a spreading puddle of water engulfing one side of her white shirt.

 _Addison's not clumsy._

Wait.

"I don't know what happened," she's saying now, taking one of the dishtowels from Savvy and dabbing at the front of her shirt, which is now soaked.

And then, with Savvy and Weiss occupied, she winks at him.

Outraged, he looks at his old friends for support, but neither one notices. Addie smirks at his expression.

Why didn't he tell her to nix the white shirt?

Derek concentrates very hard on the pattern around the rim of his plate.

"You want to borrow a shirt, Addie? You look cold," Savvy says with concern.

Derek makes the mistake of glancing up, briefly, to see that she does, in fact, look cold.

 _Damn it._

"No, it's fine," Addison says. "It will dry."

"Are you sure?"

"Borrow a shirt, Addison," Derek advises her with his gaze on his plate. With his eyes, he traces the pattern again. It's blue and gold, with swirls or – something. Something that curves.

Curves.

Very visible ones, outlined by transparent fabric.

He trains his eyes away from the tantalizing view.

But that's a mistake too, because his gaze lands on the framed wedding portrait hanging on the wall. Savvy in frothy lace and Weiss in tie and tails, beaming and young. And Addison and Derek, just as beaming as young. A pink bridesmaid dress skims her long body; Derek's arm is wrapped around her. If he were to look closely he'd see a diamond ring on her hand, but no band. Savvy and Weiss got married first. _We're next,_ she whispered to him when they watched Savvy walk up the aisle on her father's arm.

Those memories are dangerous; he turns and then he's looking at the antique table he remembers Addison fussing over when Savvy brought it home, while he and Weiss teased them by saying it looked just like a knockoff.

And then it's the coffee table book on Tuscany Weiss bought for Savvy. Derek bought the same one for Addison, with airline tickets inside.

It's still one of his best gifts.

This apartment is full of history – rich, complex history. Painful, beautiful history.

History that's ruined now.

He swallows hard; his hand shakes a little on his next sip of coffee.

"Addie, are you _sure_ you're okay?" Savvy is asking.

"I'm fine," Addison says bravely, and Derek has to force himself not to roll his eyes at her performance.

"But I don't want you to be cold," Savvy says. "Oh, I have an idea."

 _Come back with a shirt, come back with a shirt,_ Derek tries to transmit the request psychically.

It fails.

"I turned up the heat," Savvy announces when she returns. And it seems she's piled much of her long blonde hair atop her head and stripped off her pink cardigan accordingly. From the expression on her husband's face, he's fairly certain Weiss is starting to feel a little more sympathetic to Derek's pain.

"Ooh, Sav, they look _great_ ," Addison says, apparently distracted from her own wet shirt by Savvy's dry – but clinging – one.

And she said _they_ , not _it._

So it's not her shirt she means.

"Don't they?" Savvy beams, pulling her shoulders back a little. "You can thank Mark."

Derek coughs and splutters around his mouthful of coffee.

"Mark recommended someone for the reconstructive surgery," Weiss says quickly. They're the only ones sitting at the table now, Addison and Savvy standing together a few feet away.

"Someone great," Savvy adds, a nervous trill in her voice as she glances at Derek. "Mark just did a consult or whatever. He was really nice about it."

Addison looks frozen, one hand resting on Savvy's bare shoulder. The word _Mark_ seems to have stopped her in her tracks, and Derek finds himself annoyed again.

"Oh, Mark is nothing if not _really nice_ ," Derek says sourly. "Right up until he sleeps with your wife."

Addison's cheeks turn pink.

"Derek," Weiss says quietly.

The air has turned tense, alarm bells practically audible, but he keeps going.

"No, it's fine." Derek stands up, tucking his chair in neatly, then turns to Savvy. "I'm glad he was helpful, Sav. I just hope you didn't help _him_ out in return."

He knows he's gone too far the moment the words leave his mouth. Weiss pushes back his chair so abruptly it screams against the hardwood floor, advancing on Derek.

"Honey. _Honey_." In a flash, Savvy has moved between them. "It's okay," she says, her tone appeasing.

"It's not okay," Weiss corrects sharply.

Addison, standing alone now in her still-damp shirt, looks like she'd like to disappear.

Weiss is inches from him now, Savvy hanging onto his arm.

"Derek, I don't care how sexually frustrated you are, you don't talk to my wife that way. Ever."

The words are cold, harsh – and Derek realizes he's never actually seen Weiss angry like this before. He's seen him curse the screen when the Yankees lose and he's seen him complain about things, even get heated about work politics or real politics, but not angry. It changes his whole face, his brows knitted together, and for a moment Derek is certain he's going to throw a punch.

"I'm sorry," he says, and means it. Savvy hasn't done anything wrong. Guilt floods him immediately. Here's Savvy being so brave about her health ordeal, multiple surgeries, and he basically accuses her of sleeping with Mark. "Savvy, I'm sorry," he repeats, looking her in the eyes this time. "I really am."

"It's okay," she says immediately, giving Derek a faint smile. "Thank you, Derek."

She's still resting a manicured hand on Weiss's chest; he doesn't acknowledge Derek's apology.

"Can we please go back to the table?" Savvy asks. "I'd like to finish my coffee. Weiss, honey…" she prods gently when he doesn't respond.

"I'm sorry," Derek says again, directing the words to Weiss this time. "I was out of line, Weiss. I know that. It won't happen again."

"It better not," Weiss says darkly, but he seems slightly mollified, allowing Savvy to lead him back toward the table where their coffee awaits. She settles on his lap once he's seated, apparently not chancing his deciding to get up and throw a punch at Derek after all.

Weiss doesn't seem to mind; with one arm around his wife, he uses his free hand to take a long sip of coffee.

Derek glances questioningly at Addison, who's still standing right where she stood during his entire confrontation with Weiss. She doesn't look at him.

At the table, Savvy is murmuring something to Weiss, whose attention is focused on her. When Addison still doesn't move, Derek approaches her.

"Are you okay?" he asks, somewhat grudgingly.

She doesn't respond.

"Addison." He touches her shoulder and feels the startled reaction of her muscles under his palm.

"What's wrong with you? You're miles away."

"Six miles?" she asks ruefully. But her eyes are shining with tears, making her joke sad instead of funny.

"Addison." He's surprised, taking her arm in his and walking her further away from the dining room for some privacy. "Is this because of what I said?"

"No," she says immediately. "I understand why you said it. It's my fault, not yours. You and Weiss never fight. I've never seen you fight."

He nods, still trying to understand. "It's okay," he says when she looks expectantly at him.

"It's not okay," she counters, sounding much like Weiss. "Don't you get it? You and Weiss are happy when I'm not here. Savvy and Weiss are happy when I'm not here. You're happy when I'm not here."

"Addison." He shakes his head. "That's not – look, this isn't the time, or the place."

"Yeah." She looks down at her hands. "That's kind of our problem, isn't it? It's never the time or the place."

"Are you talking about the ferry?"

"I'm talking about everything."

Derek sighs and glances toward the dining room table. Savvy and Weiss still appear preoccupied with each other, so he leads Addison through the swinging doors into their kitchen.

Addison follows him without complaint, leaning her elbows on the marble island. He can only see the back of her, but her posture indicates she's tired.

"Addie."

She turns around. "It's never going to go away, is it?" Her voice trembles. "I thought we were … I mean, we were having …"

Her voice trails off before she can say either _fun_ or _great sex_ , either of which seems appropriate.

"I shouldn't have said anything." He knows it's true. He knew it even when he was saying it, that his short lived enjoyment, the little thrill of meanness, wouldn't last. He's done this dance enough since Addison arrived in Seattle.

 _Are you done, Derek? Hurting me back, I mean._

"No, it's not your fault," she says. "It's mine."

"Can't it be both of ours?" he tries.

She smiles a little. "Yeah … okay." But then she looks pensive again, twisting the rings on her left hand. "Poor Savvy and Weiss. Weiss bails us out of jail, they invite us over for brunch, and …"

"I know."

Addison looks so sad – whether because of what's happened to their marriage or the devastation of being a less than perfect houseguest – that he can't really stand it. His hand rises of its own accord and brushes lightly against her jaw.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

Her eyes meet his. Tears that never fell are still shimmering on their surface. "You already apologized. Twice."

"I apologized to Savvy and I apologized to Weiss," Derek says. "But I didn't apologize to you."

"You don't have to – "

"I'm sorry for what I said. I might have swung at Savvy, in there, but – I was aiming at you."

"Yeah." Addison looks down at her hands. "I kind of got that. But ... thank you. And I'm sorry too, for - "

"I know," he says, before she can go through the litany again. She turns her gaze up to his and he touches her face, gently, her cheek coming to rest in his palm.

"Oh, come _on._ "

The sarcastic, annoyed words echo in the quiet kitchen.

"We're not doing anything," Derek says quickly, pulling his hand down.

"Yeah ... I've heard that one before."

Weiss seems more like himself again, at least, his anger gone. He turns to Addison. "Addie, Savvy's looking for you."

She nods.

And Weiss isn't the only one whose anger is gone. One glance at Addison's faintly quivering chin and he's certain he doesn't care if it ends up hurting their criminal defense. He pulls her close again and places a gentle kiss on her lips anyway. She looks surprised for a moment … and then pleased. The tears that were clinging to her lashes are gone now.

Derek watches the door swing shut behind her.

"I guess she's not mad at you anymore," Weiss observes mildly.

Derek blinks, confused by the order of the pronouns.

"Oh, you mean for the cab ride?"

"Derek, don't be an idiot," Weiss says, but his tone borders on affectionate.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, sleeping with Mark was about as mad at you as she could get, don't you think? Even if she didn't use words … just bad decisions."

Derek considers this. "You might be right."

Weiss nods sagely. "All my clients say that eventually."

"I thought I wasn't your client."

"That's beside the point." Weiss looks amused, though.

"I really am sorry, Weiss," Derek says quietly. "What happened to our marriage has nothing to do with the two of you and I should never have said that to Savvy. I regret it, and I'm sorry."

He's not sure the last time he apologized this much. It feels … interesting.

Weiss just nods again. "I know you are. Forget about it."

His tone is a little short, though, and Derek isn't quite sure he's forgiven.

"I've never seen you that angry," Derek says hesitantly.

"Yeah, well." Weiss brings some of the dishes to the sink and starts running water. "Would you let me talk like that to Addie?"

"Of course not," he says without really thinking about it.

"So you get it. It's done."

"You're really not angry anymore?" Derek asks doubtfully.

"No. You're forgiven. Unless…"

Weiss pauses, drawing out the sentence enough to make Derek nervous.

"Unless?" he asks finally, prompting his friend.

Weiss clears his throat. "Unless … you started rooting for the Mariners out there," he finishes.

Derek exhales an audible sigh of relief.

"Not even for a second."

"Good."

…

"I'm so sorry about that."

"Don't you start apologizing now," Savvy scolds. "Those two and their … chest thumping is about all I can take today."

"Yeah." Addison glances at her old friend. "I've never seen Weiss like that."

"I have," Savvy says simply. "He can get … protective."

"And you don't enjoy it at all," Addison prods teasingly.

"I don't. I hate violence," Savvy announces primly.

Addison just regards her calmly.

"Fine, it was a _little_ hot." Savvy smiles, then shakes her head. "But don't quote me on that. And I don't think I would have enjoyed it quite as much if blood had been involved. We're not all surgeons, you know."

"True."

"But you're okay now?" Savvy asks gently. "You and Derek?"

"Yes … and no." Addison tries to put it into words. "We kind of … left our problems behind," she says carefully. "Or that's how it felt. You know, on the plane, and then in the hotel …"

"On the ferry," Savvy adds with a mischievous look, but falls quiet again, encouraging Addison to go on.

"And it was … nice," Addison admits. "More than nice. And then when we got here, it was still like that for a while … and then it wasn't."

"Ah." Savvy seems to be considering this. "Our place is the first spot you've gone where there's history," she offers gently, "isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you didn't go back to the brownstone, or any of your old haunts. You stayed somewhere new. Maybe being here, where you spent a lot of time when you were married … well, you get it."

She does, and it's an interesting proposition. "This wasn't supposed to get so serious," she says, feeling a little silly. "We were actually … having fun."

She gives Savvy a brief and somewhat censored description of the previous evening.

Savvy looks impressed. "A whole tour group?" she asks, eyes wide. "What exactly were you – "

"Never mind," she says quickly.

"Because marriage is more than great sex and reminiscing about all the innocent people you've scarred with your antics," Savvy says gently. "It's the tough stuff, too."

"But that's not what this weekend was for," Addison blurts.

"No?" Savvy studies her for a moment. "Are you sure about that?"

"I … don't know." Savvy's expression is giving her pause.

"Look, I just know you're both here. So you have to come up for air once in a while. You can't spend all day in bed. You can work out the kinks – and yes, I know what Weiss would say to that, but I'm not going for the double entendre – and then get back in bed, you know. It's not one or the other."

"How did you get so wise?"

"It was the near-death experience," Savvy says sagely.

"So … what am I supposed to do now?"

"Well, you're sticking around until your court date, right?"

"We don't have much of a choice."

"Which means that instead of a weekend, you have … a whole bunch of days you weren't expecting to spend together."

"And you think we should spend them working on our marriage?"

"Addie, you realize that it's not just the difficult conversations that count as working on your marriage? The sex counts too, so I can't really be mad at you about that – even if Weiss wasn't thrilled with _how_ you went about it, and neither was the NYPD."

"Oh." She considers this. "So what does that mean?"

"It means that my advice is to be open. Just … take it as it comes." Savvy smiles warmly at her. "Oh, and Addie?"

"Hm?"

"That time, I was going for the double entendre."

…

The air has mercifully cleared and Derek notes that it's reminiscent of the way he and Addison would sometimes fight, back when their marriage was young. They would be frustrated, loud, hearts pounding – and then it was over, it was calm. Sometimes the pressure builds … and just has to be released.

So it's a relief that when he and Weiss finish up the dishes, bantering good naturedly about sports and not touching on any sensitive topics, they find Savvy and Addison curled up on opposite sides of the couch with coffee cups, in identical postures with their legs tucked under them. It's peaceful, and familiar too.

"Hey," Addison says quietly to him. She raises her coffee cup a little in salute.

"Hey." He sits down on the chair next to her side of the couch; she offers him a sip of her coffee and he takes it, then hands her back the cup.

Savvy glances from one of them to the other, then to Weiss, who settles in on the couch behind her. Derek is a little envious of their positions, but he's being subtle about it.

... but apparently not subtle enough.

"We're not outlaws," Weiss says smugly, "so we don't have to keep our distance."

"Are you this hard on all your clients?" Derek asks.

Weiss looks like he's about to say something, then closes his mouth again. Instead, he just moves his head a little, seeming like he's taking in the whole room.

"We haven't done this in a long time," he muses.

Derek nods. It's true, but he can tell Weiss is also thinking what he's thinking – that they used to do this all the time. Addison's hand, resting on the arm of the couch, twitches a little bit. Derek covers it with his and after a few seconds her palm turns until their fingers are entwined.

"What he means is … it's good to have you back," Savvy says.

"… just until our court date," Addison clarifies.

"Oh. Right." Savvy looks from one of them to the other again. "Oh, wait – I can't believe I didn't ask, after all this. I forgot the whole point of your trip here was to go to Fourchette. How was dinner last night?"

…

Short-lived peace is still peace, Derek decides, even if it's short-lived.

Even if it means that he and Addison are currently holed up in a small powder room hanging onto the doorknob while both Savvy and Weiss yell at them from the other side of the door.

"I can't believe – "

"Did you seriously – "

"You are unbelievable – "

"Not to mention insatiable – "

"Your whole defense is supposed to be premised on that restaurant!" Weiss bellows after a moment of welcome silence from their tandem yelling.

"That's not a very strong defense," Addison can't help responding.

Derek elbows her.

"No kidding, Addie!" Weiss shouts.

Except he doesn't say _kidding._

"All right, enough." Derek raps on the door from the inside. "If we come out, you have to stop yelling at us."

"No deal," Weiss says firmly, rattling the locked doorknob a few times.

"Why would we ever agree to that?" Savvy adds.

Addison turns to Derek. "Why are we friends with lawyers?"

"Maybe you knew all along you'd turn into criminals," Weiss suggests from the other side of the door.

"Addie, come on," Savvy cajoles from outside the door.

"Okay, enough," Weiss says. "I'm getting the key."

"You have a key?"

"We have a key. I'm getting it, and you're getting out of there. Just – Sav, you wait there in case they try to pull a fast one," they hear Weiss direct.

And then … silence.

"He's gone," Addison whispers.

"How much time do you think we have?" Derek asks, turning on the faucet.

"At least a few minutes."

"Or a minute anyway."

The running water is surprisingly soothing. Actually, it reminds her of that waterfall where they –

"Derek, wait."

He waits.

"We can't do this."

"We can't?" He's confused. Hasn't every moment since the plane left the runway at Sea-Tac confirmed that they can, in fact, do this? That they can do this very, very well?

"No. We can't. Look, all Weiss asked from us is that we … behave."

"Right …"

"And we owe him."

"We do," Derek agrees. "Both of them," he adds.

Addison nods.

"Do you really think we can do this?" he asks, hearing the doubt in his own voice.

"It's going to be hard," she says hesitantly.

They both pause to practice their newfound self-discipline by _not_ calling attention to her choice of vocabulary.

… and then congratulate themselves twice, first for pulling it off and second for not celebrating by, well, pulling it off.

They draw twin deep breaths.

And then Derek shuts off the water.

…

They can hear Weiss muttering as he approaches. "It was under a pile of grogers," he's saying to Savvy as he approaches. "What was it doing there?"

"I have no idea – ooh, actually, didn't your sister bring her boys over last Purim?"

"So?"

"So…"

Savvy's voice trails off.

Inside the bathroom, Derek winces, wondering if they're going to get blamed for this too.

"Anyway, now we have it. We're coming in there!" Weiss adds, raising his voice to make sure they can hear inside the bathroom. "And we're not under any illusions about what we're going to find, but if you could at least make sure that bathing suit areas are – "

The door bursts open.

"…covered," he finishes slowly. "I'd appreciate it."

Next to him, Savvy's mouth is open with surprise.

"Derek. Addison." Weiss looks from one of them to the other. "Really?"

"Really," Derek says.

He can't blame Weiss for his surprise. He knows what his friends saw when they unlocked the bathroom door.

Addison is sitting on the closed toilet, legs crossed primly, hair perfectly neat, cheeks a normal, well-mannered color.

Derek is more than arms' length away, leaning against the wall. His arms are folded over his chest, and his heartbeat is exactly what one would expect in a, well, _normal_ situation.

"You really didn't –"

Weiss looks from one of them to the other.

"We really didn't," Derek assures him.

Savvy and Weiss exchange a look.

"Wow," Weiss says simply.

"Okay, were we _really_ that bad?"

"You mean when you lived here before, or on this trip?"

"Either," Derek says.

"Both," Addison says.

Weiss turns to Derek first. "Yes, or yes," he says, before turning to Addison. "Yes _and_ yes."

Savvy beams at his answers and moves a little closer to her husband – she's always been a stickler for grammatical precision – and Addison starts wondering if they're going to be the next two to get arrested for indecent exposure.

"The point is," Derek cuts in hastily, "we really didn't. We're making a fresh start."

"Turning over a new leaf," Addison adds.

"Going straight."

"Coming clean."

All four of them pause.

"The point is," Addison finishes with dignity, "all that is behind us. So if you'll let us out of here, we can go back to having a nice, normal, civilized brunch."

Weiss and Savvy exchange a look.

"And we're going to make up for the reservation," Derek says. "We'll – reschedule."

"You can't reschedule at Fourchette," Addison and Savvy say in unison.

"The point is, we'll make up for everything." Derek says hurriedly. "The point is …"

His voice trails off.

"Just let them out," Savvy tells Weiss. "I know we're mad and everything, but I've really missed Addie and I don't want to lose any more time without catching up."

"Oh, Sav." Addison looks touched. Swiftly, she crosses the floor of the powder room and the two women embrace.

"It's just really good to see you," Savvy says, her voice somewhat muffled by Addison's hair.

"I was going to say the same thing," Addison says. "But then I got distracted."

Derek is confused, but then Addison pulls back and, unfortunately, clears up his confusion.

"Sav, they feel _amazing._ "

"I know, right?" Savvy grins. "They do incredible work now."

Derek concentrates on the pattern in the white-on-white floor tile. This really isn't anything he needs to –

"And they're so high!" Addison sounds impressed.

"I know. It's like being nineteen again. Remember – "

"Oh, I remember."

Addison sounds wistful. Derek considers interrupting to remind her that he's spent the last twenty-four in very close proximity to her very-not-nineteen breasts and he has zero complaints, but … it doesn't seem like the right time.

Still, he reminds himself to make it very clear later.

He glances up, and then regrets it immediately when what he sees is Savvy holding her long hair off her face while Addison, eyes wide, places one of her hand right on –

"Addison!"

"What?" She turns to Derek, eyes wide.

He exchanges an uncomfortable look with Weiss.

"…nothing," he says, at glares from both women.

"Derek, I'm happy to see Savvy looking so good, that's all. Aren't you?"

"Happy that Savvy looks good?" Derek exchanges an even more uncomfortable look with Weiss. How the hell is he supposed to answer that? Rock/hard-place wise, it's about one step up from _when did you stop beating your wife?_

"Um …." No help is forthcoming. "Savvy always looks good," he tries after a few moments of awkward silence.

He sees Weiss give him a subtle thumbs up.

"Thank you, Derek," Savvy says, smiling at him. She turns back to Addison. "The texture is incredible, don't you think?"

"Absolutely."

"Sav," Weiss says, his tone deferential, "shouldn't we let Derek out of the bathroom?"

"What? Oh, sure," Savvy says distractedly, taking a few steps away from the doorframe so Derek can exit.

"I just can't get over how great they look," Addison is saying, as Savvy turns to one side, and then the other.

"That means a lot. I know how many breast exams you've done."

Addison laughs. "I wasn't even thinking of that, but – okay, fair enough."

Savvy grins. "Ooh, do you want to see?" she asks suddenly.

"Want to see what?" Derek asks nervously.

The women ignore him.

"Of course I do!" Addison beams.

Oh.

See _that._

Or should he say _those._

Addison's eyes are sparkling with what Derek is almost 100% sure is excitement for her friend's massively successful reconstructive surgery.

But still.

"Be careful," Derek advises, "she's insatiable."

He throws a glance at Weiss after that, worried the other man will hear it as an insult, but he's chuckling.

"I'm well aware she's insatiable," Savvy says with a grin, "I lived with her for four years and two of those were in a shared bedroom."

"Wait, what does that – "

"But since it's not Spring Fling and it's not two-for-one Tuesdays at Margarita Joe's… I think I'm safe."

"Wait, _what_?!"

They don't respond.

Instead, arms linked, the two women head down the hallway toward what Derek knows to be Savvy and Weiss's bedroom.

Derek turns to Weiss. "Did you know this?"

"I did not know this."

"How did we not know this?"

"I don't know," Weiss says, still gazing toward the bedroom with a glazed expression. "But you know what I do know?"

"What?"

"I know we need to know _more_ about this."

"Agreed."

They start down the hall after the girls, full of questions.

* * *

 _To be continued. What did you think? Still fluffy and filthy, but with a feeling or two - I mean, it IS Addek. And I'm me, so I'm planning to continue. (Along with my other WIPs, I promise.) Do you enjoy sex-crazed Addek as much as I do? Do you want to know more about what Derek and Weiss want to know more about? Review and let me know!_


	6. if you want something done right

**A/N: Hi, everyone! Remember this story, aka "Addek Take Manhattan (And Each Other)? Well, it's back. I have a lot of stories to catch up on after my unplanned mini-hiatus, and I am going to catch up on _all_ my WIPs, I promise. Some of them, like The Climbing Way, take time because I need to reread a lot before I can write, and they are twenty million pages long. But today is Thirsty Thursday, and I have a bunch of work to do, so why _wouldn't_ I write like twelve thousand words of pure unadulterated Addek trash? And by trash, I _do_ mean trash. Remember, this story is not for the faint of heart. Strong T for shameless sexual situations and adults who should know better. It _is_ for the Revolution though, and I hope you enjoy it!**

 **So, to set the scene, in the last chapter Addison and Derek had brunch at Savvy and Weiss's. In the context of discussing Savvy's reconstructive surgery, she and Addison let drop a new hint about their shared history. To be specific: _"Spring Fling"_ and " _Two for One Tuesdays at Margarita Joe's._ " Savvy and Addison disappeared into the bedroom so Savvy could show Addison her new assets, and Weiss and Derek really have no choice but to follow up...**

* * *

 **Six Miles High, Part Six  
 _If You Want Something Done Right..._**

* * *

The door to Savvy and Weiss's room is closed when they get there. Derek gives his friend a curious look when he just stands still, and extends his own hand toward the doorknob.

Weiss shakes his head, lifting his finger to his lips and then gesturing to the closed door.

Following the other man's lead, Derek leans closer to the door … close enough to hear both familiar, if slightly muffled, voices from inside the bedroom.

"The texture is incredible."

Addison's voice, clearly. Derek frowns.

"I know, right? Firm … but still soft," Savvy is saying thoughtfully. "You want to taste?"

Addison's laugh carries through the door. "I really shouldn't."

"Oh, you really should. You won't regret it."

"Fine, if you insist."

They hear shuffling sounds from inside the bedroom.

"Don't tell Weiss … "

That was Savvy.

"I won't, but don't you think he'll notice if the bed is all sticky?"

"Fine, if you want to miss out on something this good because you're worried about Weiss…"

And then … Addison moans.

Loudly.

"God, this is good."

Derek turns to Weiss with alarm.

"This is actually the best thing I've ever tasted," Addison says from inside the bedroom. "It's incredible."

They move as one through the door.

"Okay, that's enough – " Weiss stops talking once the door is open.

Addison and Savvy both look up, confused, when the two men burst in.

For a moment Derek and Weiss just stand there, confused at what they see:

Addison is sitting cross-legged on the bed, holding a peach in one hand with a few circles bitten out of it; Savvy is stretched out on the chaise longue a few feet away with another peach in hers.

"What do you mean, _that's enough?_ " Addison asks, brow furrowed.

"Stone fruit. He means stone fruit," Derek says helpfully. "You should, uh, stop with one. Because, you know, we still haven't had dessert …"

"Weiss, are you calling me fat?" Addison asks, turning to their friend and raising one eyebrow delicately.

"No, of course not. Just – uh – sugar," he says, sounding far less articulate than usual and rather like he's hoping someone will rescue him.

Derek knows the feeling.

"Oh." Addison takes another bite of the peach and a little bead of juice gathers at the corner of her mouth. Derek swallows hard. "Well, thank you for looking out for me, Weiss. But I can handle a little sugar."

Weiss is looking pleadingly at Derek, who suddenly remembers who bailed them out of jail. "Why are you eating peaches?" he asks, trying to help.

"Because they're amazing." Savvy smiles at him. "They're from that basket the accountant sent."

"He's sweet on her," Weiss interjects.

"He is not sweet on me." Savvy frowns. "He just knows I'm from Georgia and that I miss it sometimes, so he sends …." Her voice trails off. "Addie, your accountant sends you things, doesn't he?"

"Our accountant is a _she_ ," Addison says, "and the only thing she sends is bills."

"Oh." Savvy pauses, glancing at the peach in her hand. "The point is, they're delicious."

"And sticky." Weiss frowns.

Addison and Savvy exchange a meaningful glance; this one Derek understands, having shared plenty of spaces with Savvy and Weiss over the years, including frequent weekends in the country. He's far too polite to call his old friend _neurotic_ or anything along those lines, but Weiss was always the one sweeping the sand off the deck and hovering with bleach to wait for the chicken to finish marinating.

"I told you he wouldn't like this," Savvy sighs, then holds up her slightly bitten peach. "At least taste it now that you've burst in here."

Weiss looks torn. Addison looks amused, taking another bite of her peach and then offering it to Derek. It's jewel bright, glistening, perfect circle marks from her sharp teeth. He accepts a bite – it bursts with so much sweetness and flavor he has to close his eyes for a moment – and then without thinking leans in to clear the drop of peach juice still clinging to the corner of Addison's mouth.

With his own.

At the sound of a clearing throat, he pulls back immediately to see Weiss, arms folded, scowling at them.

"Was that fight before even real?" he demands. "Or were you just trying to trick us so we'd forget you're sex fiends?"

"It was real, and we're not sex fiends," Addison responds indignantly. When Weiss doesn't look convinced, she frowns. "Weiss … how are you billing your time yesterday?"

"Pro bono defense of alleged sex fiends," he recites.

" _Alleged_ ," Addison repeats. "That means it hasn't been proven."

"She has a point, honey," Savvy says.

Weiss turns to her. "Sav, do you want to see the police report?"

"I don't think that will be necessary," Addison cuts in hastily. "The point is …" She seems to flounder, turning to Derek for help. "The point is …"

"The point is, what happened at spring fling?"

"And Two for One Tuesdays at Margarita Joe's?" Weiss adds.

Addison looks like she regrets asking him for help.

"Never mind," Savvy says firmly.

"Oh, come on." Weiss turns to her. "You can't drop a line like that and not tell us."

"Sure we can."

Addison nods in agreement. "We just did."

"Very funny." Weiss frowns at both of them. "Addie, what happened to your gratitude for my legal counsel?"

"Do you charge all your clients in stories about girl-on-girl?" she asks innocently.

"Well … no," Weiss admits, with the good grace to blush a little, "but there are bar regulations about that."

Savvy gives a confirmatory nod when Addison glances at her.

"Okay, fine," Addison sighs. "But only because that lox was so good."

"Should we get Eli Zabar on the phone, then?" Weiss asks. "He really deserves the credit for the lox."

Savvy beams, apparently pleased with her husband's tendency to share credit where credit is due.

"I'll leave it up to you how much of this story you share with the Zabar family," Addison says, and Weiss seems satisfied.

"So," Derek prompts. "Spring Fling …."

"Right." Addison nods, glancing at Savvy. "You might as well get comfortable," she says, and Derek decides to sit down on the bed rather than wonder why she made that suggestion. Weiss joins Savvy on the chaise, looking equally curious and wary.

"Well," Addison starts. "It was Spring Fling, sophomore year. Which was basically an opportunity to take advantage of the one week of nice weather we'd get up there."

"In between the snow," Savvy cuts in.

"And the sleet," Addison adds.

"And the rain."

"And before the humidity and the heat and the summer thunderstorms," Addison finishes with a sigh. "And there was a concert, an outdoor concert – I don't remember who was playing," she muses.

"Don't try to remember," Savvy advises her, "it will just date us."

"Ooh, good point." Addison nods. "Anyway, it was a … concert, and the weather was beautiful. The green was full, all of us were all spread out on the grass with blankets and picnic baskets, and wine … it was really nice, actually."

Derek and Weiss exchange a glance. So far it does sound – well, nice. So obviously there's more.

There has to be.

Savvy takes over the story. "Addie and I were both dating that spring – oh come _on,_ " Savvy shakes her head, grinning. "You can't get jealous if you didn't know us yet."

"We can," Weiss says. "We just did."

Savvy frowns at him. "My point is, Addie was dating that rower from Exeter and I was dating –"

"Oh, I remember," Weiss interjects, scowling. "That airhead musclebound drone with the – weird chin thing."

"He played lacrosse," Savvy tells Derek with dignity, not looking at her husband, "the weird chin thing was a cleft, and he actually wasn't an airhead. He's a federal prosecutor now."

"In Kansas," Weiss clarifies, "which doesn't really count."

Savvy continues to ignore him. "The _point_ is, Addie and I both had boyfriends that spring, and our plan was to have a picnic – like a double date. Watch the music, wait for stars to come out, drink wine and eat cheese and grapes and … well, you get the drill."

Derek and Weiss exchange another look, wondering where this is going.

"What happened next?" Derek prompts, while Weiss rubs his thumb over his decidedly un-clefted chin.

"Nothing happened," Addison says glumly.

"They didn't show," Savvy explains.

"Who didn't show?"

"Our boyfriends," Savvy says patiently.

"The rower didn't show?" Derek asks Addison.

She shakes her head. "Nope."

"And the airhead didn't show either?" Weiss asks.

Savvy nods in confirmation, not correcting him this time.

"We got stood up," she says. " _Double_ stood up."

"I found out later that the rower had hooked up with a Philosophy major with a nose ring," Addison adds.

"And the not-actually-an-airhead had read an article about how sex undermines academic performance and decided to dump me," Savvy says. "Without bothering to inform me, mind you."

"Jerks," Weiss says.

"Jerks," Derek agrees.

"Well, be glad they gave us up or we might not have been so available when we met the two of you," Savvy says reasonably. "But at the time – we were pretty upset."

Addison nods. "We both thought we were in serious relationships, and we'd planned this lovely picnic, and instead – we end up alone, just the two of us, on this huge blanket with wine and cheese and grapes … a whole romantic meal for four."

"So what did you do?"

"We drank wine," Savvy says.

"A lot of wine," Addison adds.

Derek and Weiss exchange a glance. They've both known Addison for a long time. _A lot of wine_ , for her, is no joke.

"We were sad," Savvy reminds them.

"And all around us … were couples," Addison sighs. "Cuddling, and sharing drinks, and feeding each other grapes, and listening to the music – and there we were, just the two of us, with our hearts broken."

Weiss's eyes have softened now. "So you were sad."

"We were sad," Savvy confirms. She glances at Addison. "But at least we had each other."

Derek considers this. "Oh. So it was ... a comfort thing."

That's not really what he was expecting, but he can concede it's actually sort of sweet.

"Right," Savvy says, but her gaze seems fixed across the room on a spot on the wall.

Weiss's brows knit together. "Sav?"

"What?"

"You're a terrible liar," Weiss says bluntly.

"I never lie!" Savvy's blue eyes are wide and studiedly innocent.

"She's only good at lying in court," Weiss explains to Derek.

"Excuse me, I do not _lie_ in court," Savvy says with dignity. "I occasionally … massage the truth, but that's different. And anyway, I have a poker face."

(She doesn't … Derek has played poker with her more than once.)

"Just tell us what happened," Derek suggests. "You were sad, you got dumped, so you cheered each other up with some friendly kissing?"

"Yes, exactly," Addison says, nodding vigorously.

A little too vigorously.

Weiss and Derek exchange another look.

"So that's what happened," Weiss says.

Both women nod.

"We believe you."

"You do?"

"Nope," Weiss says. "What actually happened?"

Savvy's mouth opens, then closes again. She glances at Addison.

"Well … it's the same basic idea," Savvy says hesitantly.

"We were sad," Addison reminds them.

"And lonely."

"And supporting each other."

"And we had run out of wine."

"And …?" Weiss prompts when they stop speaking.

"And … the guys on the next blanket offered us a bottle if we if we kissed each other," Addison admits.

Derek raises his eyebrows. "You kissed each other for wine?"

"We were _sad_ ," Addison reminds him.

"I bet those guys weren't sad," Weiss smirks.

"That's beside the point," Savvy says primly. "We needed wine, they had wine. It was simple. Strategic."

"And no one took pictures," Addison adds, apparently anticipating Weiss's next question. "Thank goodness it was nineteen-"

Savvy coughs politely to cover the rest of the date.

"You kissed for wine. It was a strategic transaction," Weiss summarizes, then pauses. "You _just_ kissed, though, right?"

Savvy has become very interested in the embroidered pattern on the chaise longue.

"It was college," Addison says, her cheeks a little pink. "Everyone does things like that in college."

"No, they don't," Weiss and Derek chorus in unison.

Addison looks like she's trying not to laugh.

"Don't be mad," she says, "we _really_ needed wine."

That does sound like solid Addison-style reasoning. Still …

"So you didn't enjoy it?" Weiss asks.

"Well, that's not really the point," Savvy says.

Weiss tilts his head, squinting.

"Stop trying to imagine it!" Savvy scolds.

Addison turns to Derek as if to praise him for _not_ trying to imagine it, and then frowns at him.

"Okay, that's enough. Both of you, put your tongues back in your mouths."

"Maybe both of _you_ should have taken your own advice back in nineteen-cough," Weiss suggests.

Now Savvy looks like she's trying not to laugh.

Derek turns to Addison. "You really needed that wine, huh?"

She leans in to give him a quick kiss. "I You know how I am with my wine."

"I do know that." He smiles at her in spite of himself and she smiles back.

Savvy beams at them. "I knew they'd make up. Right, Weiss? Didn't I tell you that they would – okay, _stop_ that!" she cries hastily. "Can't you two just keep it together for one minute?"

"You just said you were glad we made up!"

"Yes. I'm glad you made up. That doesn't mean I want you making up all over my duvet. That's thousand count Egyptian cotton."

"It's beautiful," Addison says, stroking the fabric with one hand. "But it's surprisingly easy to clean, actually. One time –"

"Why am I not surprised that you know that?" Savvy shakes her head. "Okay, everyone out of the bedroom now that Addison has seen my – no, that came out wrong, but you know what I mean. Weiss, we have to keep these two away from beds."

"Why?" Weiss mutters. "That's their least favorite place to do it."

Addison's teeth are worrying her lower lip. She seems a little ashamed.

… to an outsider, maybe. Derek can tell she's trying not to laugh.

"Back out to the living room," Savvy commands, waving her hands airily and ushering them out the door. "We're having a nice civilized brunch. I'll go get some more coffee – Weiss, honey, sit between them, please," she adds, when they start to settle on the couch.

"Wait," Derek says, realizing they've only heard half the story. "What about Two for One Tuesdays at – "

He falls silent at Addison's elbow in his ribs.

Ouch.

..

Back in Savvy and Weiss's airy living room, Addison sighs. It's not that she doesn't want Savvy to be happy, but the brief moment on the bed when Derek was sitting close to her felt so good.

They've always been tactile people.

They fight, sure. They've always fought. But they also always made up, and admittedly they've always been better at apologizing with hands than they have with mouths.

Er – with _words._

The point is, she'd like to sit next to him again.

But she's not sitting next to him. She's sitting next to Weiss, who has spread his arms and legs like an inconsiderate subway commuter so that Addison and Derek are forced to opposite ends of the couch.

So," Weiss says cheerfully. "What shall we talk about?"

"Something chaste," Savvy says, returning with coffee and setting it out on the table. "Something that's not sexy."

"Baseball," Weiss suggests. Derek shakes his head immediately.

"The two of them will just want to talk about Jeter," he explains.

When Savvy's eyes glaze over, Weiss seems to realize his friend is right.

"Fine. Uh … gangrene."

"Rats," Savvy suggests, shuddering a little. "Subway rats."

Addison and Derek are utterly unmoved.

"The problem with being friends with doctors," Weiss announces, "leaving aside the separate sex fiend issue with these two doctors in particular, is that you can't gross them out with anything … gross. They've seen and heard it all."

Savvy nods knowingly, while Derek considers whether to be offended.

He supposes that it's not wrong to say he and Addison are used to gore. It's not wrong that they've seen and heard it all, dissected a fair amount of it …

…and sometimes had sex right afterwards too, so Weiss has a point.

"Fine," Savvy says. "Let me think."

Addison and Derek exchange a glance. While their friends are distracted, maybe they could move a little closer, and –

"Law!"

Addison stops inclining her foot toward her husband at Savvy's exclamation.

"Oh, I like that. Great idea." Weiss taps his chin thoughtfully. "Sav, I don't think I finished telling you what happened with the RFAs, did I?"

"No, I don't think so. Do tell." Savvy props her chin in her hand.

Weiss smiles, turning to their friends. "Derek. Addison." He stretches out his hands. "Have you ever considered the flexible standard for withdrawing deemed admissions after the time runs out to respond to a request?"

"What?" Addison looks confused.

"Ooh, good call," Savvy says approvingly.

"This is great." Weiss smiles with satisfaction. "Addie, Derek, You'll love this. So we get these requests for admission and my associate is working on …."

His words start to blur.

Because the story is long.

And detailed.

And Derek feels the excitement that started building up when he sat down next to this wife in the bedroom, the warm length of her thigh against his, start to recede.

… a lot.

Addison, for her part, is resting her chin in her hand. Derek can see that her eyes– while a lovely shade of not-blue-not-green-either – look, well … fine. They _don't_ , however, look like she's trying to figure out the next opening for her to pounce.

(They don't look like she'd try to make a double entendre about the word "opening," either.)

In short, Weiss's story seems to be working.

The law is boring, apparently. Not at all like those episodes of _Law and Order_ that would play in the residents' lounge on overnight call.

Derek is well aware that Savvy and Weiss are as likely to talk shop as he and Addison are, and many a double date dinner of the past has broken off into twosome debate or recollection of some moment or dilemma of their respective professions.

And the other two have just … tuned out.

But now he and Addison have no choice but to be tuned in.

"… subserve the presentation of the merits …"

Savvy seems engrossed by the story; Derek finds his eyes growing heavy.

" … prejudice needs to stem from reliance on the binding …"

Addison shifts restlessly – not the way she did on the plane, but like she wishes she could be somewhere else.

" … procedurally, the second prong of Rule 36 …"

But then Derek realizes something strange seems to be happening.

The more Weiss goes on with the seemingly endless story, the more of an effect it seems to be having on Savvy.

At first Derek thinks she's not feeling well.

Savvy is shifting in her seat; she looks rather flushed, and keeps tucking the same strands of long blonde hair behind her ears and then taking sips of coffee. Derek notices her hand is shaking a little when she sets the cup in the saucer.

"So _then_ I redrafted the – "

"Stop!"

They all turn to Savvy, who is now fanning herself with one hand. "I can't take any more."

Addison smiles sympathetically – no offense to Weiss, because of course she supports his professional success, but she's not sure she can take much more of this tedious story either.

Derek also smiles sympathetically – better Savvy than him, in terms of not hurting his friend's feelings, but he's not sure he can take much more either.

But then Derek turns to his wife; she looks alarmed now, eyebrows shooting up toward her vivid hairline.

"What?" he mouths.

"I forgot what Weiss's courtroom stories do to Savvy," she whispers, leaning toward Derek, which is easy because Weiss has leaned forward to get closer to Savvy.

So forward, in fact, that he practically falls off the couch, Addison leaping out of their way before Savvy jumps to her feet and wraps her arms around her husband's neck.

"Tell me about the sanctions," she whispers. "Start from the – "

"I didn't realize how late it was!" Addison announces loudly, standing up and brushing her hands off on her slacks – there are no crumbs or even a speck of lint, she's Addison, after all, and then she gestures to Derek. "We should probably get going. Right, honey?" she adds pointedly when Derek doesn't respond.

"Oh, do you really have to go?" Savvy asks monotonously, her words muffled by Weiss's neck, from which she is apparently attempting to extract cobra venom.

"Thanks so much for having us," Addison says sweetly, gesturing with no small measure of panic to Derek; obediently, he stands up and ducks around the rather compromised clump of their good friends.

Savvy seems to realize they're leaving only as they head toward the door. Most of her limbs are now wrapped around Weiss and she's half dragged him down to the couch with her. "Addie – you're in town for a while – we can all get dinner or … ?"

"Of course. I'll, uh, I'll be in touch," Addison says, hustling Derek toward the front door as Savvy's shriek of something they don't need to examine too closely echoes across the apartment.

"Thanks for coming!" Savvy calls as the front door closes behind them.

Although, from the sound of it, it's not their coming that's really at issue anymore.

Addison and Derek manage to wait until the elevator. Once the ornate doors are closed, they take one look at each other and burst out laughing.

"The hypocrisy!" Addison has tears of laughter in her eyes. "The sheer hypocrisy! They act like _we_ can't keep it together!"

"And there they are, acting like …"

Derek's voice trails off before he can say the word _us._

"She's never been able to handle Weiss's legal victories," Addison sighs. "I guess I should have been prepared. But it's hard to figure out when a victory is coming, because frankly all his stories sound the same to me. Lots of words."

"Well, it seemed like the 'words' portion was over by the time we left."

Addison snickers in response. "Worse than us. Derek, they're worse than us," she says, sounding pleased with herself.

They both laugh again.

"Although … I guess they _were_ in their own home," Derek says after a long moment of laughter, holding the elevator door open while Addison exits.

"Oh. Right." Addison looks somewhat sobered as they walk through the lobby. "But the point is, they're still insatiable too. They get it."

Derek considers the word _too_ for a moment. Back in Manhattan, it's getting harder to remember what it was like in Seattle, before they boarded the jet that would take them across the country.

They're outside now, filmy early-spring sunshine scattered on the sidewalk, when they realize they're not sure where they're going.

"I guess we have some free time," Addison says tentatively.

"We could … do something," Derek responds, just as tentatively.

"Sure." Addison glances at her watch. "There's an exhibit at the Guggenheim I wouldn't mind seeing."

"That sounds great." Derek watches a yellow cab pass them by.

"We can take the train. I don't, uh, I don't have a metrocard, but I guess we can get some – Derek, what are you doing?" her voice rises.

"Sorry," he says hastily. "There was a hair on your jacket."

"A _hair_?"

"You know you hate when there's a hair on your jacket. Or anything you're wearing," he reminds her patiently.

She looks like she can't decide whether to be miffed or appreciative.

Then he realizes his hand is still resting on her shoulder. Carefully, he removes it.

"So, uh, did you want to go to the subway, or …." Derek's voice trails off because Addison is looking at him rather the way he saw her look at the plate of lox earlier this morning.

"Did _you_ want to go to the subway?" she asks in response, repeating his words, her voice a little throaty.

"Yes. Sure." He nods. "Unless – "

"Hotel," Addison blurts suddenly, "we could go to the hotel. I mean, if you want to."

Derek is mesmerized by the color of her eyes – he's watching it change, it's more obvious here in the natural light. He moves a step closer.

"Excuse me," a man in a suit says impatiently, pushing between them.

"Where is he going?" Addison glares as the man speeds off. "It's Sunday. Doesn't he have _any_ work-life balance?"

"He should be more like us," Derek suggests. "We're balanced."

A smile spreads across Addison's face. "We certainly are." She leans forward to kiss him, her movement so smooth it almost seems inevitable.

Her kiss is soft and quick – friendly even – but instinct curls his fingers around her waist and pulls her closer.

"Behave," Addison whispers, gesturing at their very public location, "if we get caught after all Weiss did for us, he's going to feel –"

"I doubt Weiss is feeling anything right about now," Derek smirks. "Especially about us."

"Fine, but if he has to leave Savvy to bail us out of jail again, he's definitely not going to be happy."

"Fair enough." Derek sighs. "So … back to the hotel?"

Addison nods.

It's easy. Or it should be, anyway.

They're just going to hail a cab. They walk toward the corner, but Addison – who has always believed traffic should stop for her, and is rarely proven wrong – starts to step out into the street against the light.

"Stop it." Derek puts an arm out to block her, frowning. "You can wait three seconds for the light to change."

She looks annoyed but doesn't argue. He realizes his hand is still in front of her, blocking her, and she's pressed against his forearm. Her skin is warm through her light jacket.

Hurriedly, he yanks his arm down, but not before she smiles up at him. "Thanks for the save," she says.

He's not sure which one – blocking her from the cars that are still hurtling by, or moving his arm before its effect on both of them became obvious. So he hails a cab instead of figuring it out.

Derek holds the cab door open for Addison – as a gentleman should, as he has been taught firmly by his wife, since she's wearing slacks.

(Of course he gets in first when she's wearing a skirt, as she often is. He only had to make that mistake once.)

From his vantage point on the sidewalk, one hand resting on the taxi door, he watches Addison arrange herself daintily on the cracked leather seat. He can see her expression change – just slightly – the moment her flesh makes contact with the seat.

And he can also see her glance at him to make sure he saw.

Two words he has never associated with his wife: _Not Dramatic._

"You can't still be sore from this morning," he frowns as he joins her in the back seat.

"Why can't I?" she asks, turning innocent eyes toward him.

"Because … well …"

"Where are you going?" the driver barks, apparently not interested in the science behind how long the sting of an open palm lingers on sensitive skin.

Derek recites the intersection of their hotel more slowly than usual, since Addison has apparently decided that this is a good time to …

He can't think of a word other than _snuggle_ , though it sounds awfully innocent considering the woman involved. It's actually … here's another oddly innocent word: it's nice. It's nice to relax against the seat and feel the warmth of her curled against him, the window cracked to the light spring breeze.

It's nice.

Peaceful, even.

"Derek … _Derek_ ," she hisses, one of her sharp elbows digging into him, and he snaps to attention.

"What's wrong?"

She nods toward the front seat. "He's taking the Drive."

"So?" He finds his hands sliding down her back to pull her close again.

"So, at this hour we're going to end up – "

He kisses her – to shut her up, admittedly, which he recognizes doesn't sound very gentlemanly, but he's had practically two decades of experience with her commitment to backseat driving, and there's very little that can stop her once she gets going.

"Hey!" The driver raps on the plexiglass partition. "Get a room," he says, sounding more pleased with himself than he should.

Derek feels rather than sees Addison's lips part in preparation for what will no doubt be a scathing remark, and he moves his hand over her mouth to muffle it before they end up arrested again.

"Sorry," he calls toward the driver, hoping he sounds chastened … if not chaste.

"Ow!" He pulls his hand away at a sudden sharp pain. "Did you just – bite me?"

"Maybe." Addison scowls at him.

He shakes his sore hand, frowning at her. "That hurt."

"You started it," she protests.

"I'm going to finish it, too," he growls, pulling her close for an all-too-brief moment before he catches the driver glaring at them in the rearview mirror.

"Never mind," he says, releasing her with no small measure of reluctance. "Let's just … get back to the hotel. But I'll get you back later."

"Oh, good," Addison says, recrossing her legs and looking quite pleased. "I have just the thing for that."

..

To Derek's pleasant surprise, their room has already been discreetly and impeccably straightened, with vases of fresh flowers and a wire basket of brightly colored fruit.

(No peaches, thankfully)

His gaze lands on the newly made bed with its fluffy duvet. It's like a large, white magnet, pulling him, and he's pulling Addison –

"Wait," she says, resting a hand on his chest.

Wait?

Oh, that's right. With some effort, he summons their conversation from earlier.

"You want to talk," he says tentatively.

"I do? I mean, I do," Addison corrects herself hastily. "Just, maybe it can wait …"

"It can wait."

"… because we have plenty of time."

"Plenty," Derek echoes, his hands sliding down her waist again. Next time she asks if she should wear the white shirt, he's going to remember that he likes it.

(Okay, fine, he's going to forget and just nod and smile.)

"Wait," Addison says again.

Derek tilts his head, confused by the mixed messages.

"I want to give you something first."

He's certainly not going to say no to that.

"Not that kind of something," she corrects him, smiling. "A … present."

And she disappears briefly, returning with a sleek beribboned box.

"Another present?" he asks.

"It _is_ your birthday trip," she reminds him.

"True." He slips the ribbon off – Addison is well known for her perfectly wrapped presents that seem elaborate but then practically fall open. It's one of the many little things she does so flawlessly, and makes seem so effortless, that he never really noticed it until she was gone.

Or he was gone.

The point is … they were gone.

And now they're not, and he's opening her present, and –

"Derek?" she prompts as he turns a silky black scarf over in his hands. "What's wrong?"

"Not to be ungrateful," he says quickly, "it's just a little … "

 _Girly._

"A little what?"

"Girly," he admits.

And it's not _it_ , it's _they_ , because he's realized that there are in fact two of them in the box, slithering coolly over each other like a pair of snakes.

She's silent, and he's worried he's offended her.

"I can try them," he says doubtfully, wondering if this is going to be like the Pocket Square Debacle of 1996. "Do I wear them around my neck, or – "

"They're not for _you_ , Derek, they're for me!" Addison interrupts, looking faintly horrified.

"Oh!" He's relieved. "So they _are_ girly."

He feels a little validated.

Addison sighs. "Not for me to wear."

"Then what do you –"

"They're for you."

"But you just said – "

"They're for me, but they're for you to use," she clarifies.

"Use for what?"

"Oh for god's sake, Derek, _tie me up!_ "

"Oh." His eyes widen. "Oh _._ Well … why didn't you just say it?"

Addison massages her temples. "I _just_ did."

Well.

Oh.

He gets it now.

She doesn't have to ask him twice … but a quick scan of the bed leaves him disappointed.

The sleek, modern hotel bedstead is low and opaque, smooth as glass, with no place to tie silk scarves. He frowns, surveying his options.

Hanging above the bed is a stark modern photograph – enormous, probably eight feet. It's too abstract for him to figure out what it is – flowers? A close up of – a seashell? Combined with the silk scarves in his hand, it's making him feel a little flushed.

Addison just smirks at him and then climbs up onto the bed. He's distracted by the view at first, and then confused when she uses both hands to lift down the oversized framed photograph.

"Careful," he warns her.

"It's not heavy," she assures him, and then when she's removed it he sees sticking out of the wall two good sized, very heavy looking – and previously hidden – brass loops.

"Addison …"

"Okay, so I planned ahead." She grins at him.

"You planned ahead," he repeats, impressed.

"I had to pay off the concierge, but I've been assured they're very sturdy … in addition to subtle."

Derek is fairly certain their matching court-issued desk appearance tickets with _public indecency_ in black and white suggest subtlety isn't exactly their forte, but he can't exactly complain either.

..

There's a lot of laughing, reminding her of the early days of their relationship when they were still getting to know each other, their bodies and their likes and their dislikes. So far, the scarf extravaganza has been about half confusing attempts to determine the right position to use the brass loops, and half distracted fumblings when they can't quite wait to get started.

Maybe more like 60/40 in favor of the fumbling.

"The height isn't quite right," she offers, frowning.

It figures. She gave the concierge _detailed_ information, but you really can't get anything done right unless you do it yourself.

"Addie…"

"What?" She turns around with as much dignity as she can muster.

He shakes his head. "You're thinking this is the concierge's fault, and you could have done it better yourself."

"I am not," she lies.

"What did you even tell him to get him to do this? No, wait." He holds up a hand. "I take it back. I don't want to know."

"Good," she says, because she doesn't particularly want to relive it. Primly, she holds her towel closed; she learned after the Handcuff Incident of 1998 that waiting too long to remove her bra results in scissors and shrieking at losing one of her favorite La Perla pieces and … well, suffice it to say lingerie and restraints don't always go well together.

(As for the towel, that's because Shepherds and patience don't go well together either, so keeping things covered for now is necessary.)

"See, it's too high," she shows him.

"How tall did he think you were? Were you wearing heels?"

"On the phone?" she snaps, then shakes her head. "Look, we can't exactly move them, so do you want to tie me up or not?"

"When you ask like that…"

Addison tosses her hair. "All we have to do is make me a little taller, like … so." She kneels up and reaches for the rings, letting the towel drop onto the bed. Looking over her shoulder, she smiles at her husband. "See?"

Based on his glazed eyes, he does see.

Grinning, she turns around and pushes him down on the duvet, only to find herself sitting up again.

"Wait," he says.

"Now what?"

"We need a safe word."

"Oh, for Pete's sake," she snaps.

Except she doesn't say _Pete._

"Excuse me for wanting to be safe," he retorts. "Or have you forgotten the night – "

"Derek, if you tell me the story of when we were intents and the guy came in with a light bulb in his – "

"Fine," he interrupts, "but the point is, safety is important."

"Whatever." She runs impatient fingers through her hair.

"So we need a safe word," Derek reminds her, "and it's supposed to be something you wouldn't ordinarily say."

She doesn't respond.

"Like _I'm wrong_ ," Derek suggests quietly.

"Or _my husband has a normal amount of hair products_ ," Addison counters.

"How about _I trust other people to drive without my constant criticism_?"

"Or _I love living in a glorified shoebox_ ," she snaps.

For a moment both of them are silent.

"You know what, the traffic light system is a classic for a reason," Derek says heartily, and Addison nods.

With verbal logistics out of the way, it's back to the physical, and confirming that with Addison's positional tweaks, they can make this work.

As it turns out … they can.

It's not without some good-natured argument (and some less good-natured), and a few cracks about backseat driving when Addison attempts to interject her knowledge of sailors' knots into Derek's process of tying her wrists to the brass loops.

" _Round-turn and two half hitches?_ " Derek shakes his head. "That can't be a real knot. It sounds like a sexual position."

"Actually," Addison says brightly, "it can be both. Back when I was a lifeguard at the club, one time – ow!"

Derek shakes out his palm, looking quite satisfied with himself when she throws a dark look over her shoulder.

"Is that how it's going to go?" she asks.

"Unless you brought a third scarf," Derek mutters.

"A third – " she catches his meaning and glowers.

She tugs a little at the scarves and he takes pity on her, massaging the spot he just marked. She's planning to stay annoyed a little longer, but it's hard under the focused attention of his hands. Hers are useless, which is simultaneously frustrating and … well … frustrating.

The brass loops are sturdy under her hands while Derek's hands skim over her, lightly enough to make her shudder. Gently, he draws her hips back. The blank white wall blurs in front of her eyes as she realizes that the brass loops might just be in the perfect position after all.

She's going to be apologizing to the concierge.

Or not, because she only insulted him in her mind.

She's could leave a review on _Thousand Count Sheets_ , her favorite hotel booking site. Except what could she say about this that wouldn't be, well, incriminating?

And it's hard to concentrate on reviews anyway; she's gripping the brass loops tightly, the silk rubbing her bound wrists and making her feel a little faint with sensation. The limited movement is threatening to drive her crazy – it feels like Derek is everywhere at once, the heat of his body behind her, inside her, one warm hand tangling in her hair and keeping her upright. She hisses, the sting in her scalp fading quickly to pleasure.

"Are you sure this is comfortable?" Derek asks, pausing.

She grits her teeth, willing him to continue. "Are _you_ sure comfortable is what we're going for?" she pants when he doesn't.

He seems to accept this.

And then he stops talking; his lips are busy on the sensitive skin of her neck. With her limited vision she can't tell where he's landing next, her body shuddering in response. She arches against him, trying to control the overwhelming sensations, and he just shifts his grip.

"Derek…"

"Whose birthday is it?" he teases, one of his hands circling sensitive flesh, then withdrawing when she tries to press against it.

She says his name again and he laughs a little, tracing light patterns along her thighs and deftly avoiding her most sensitive spots even as she circles her hips with increasing desperation to try to shift his attention.

"Can't you be patient?" he asks, his lips against her ear, and he sucks one lobe into his mouth when she doesn't respond.

"No," she snaps, "do you know me at all?"

"I know you pretty well, actually." She can't see him, but he sounds like he's trying not to laugh.

All of the pressure suddenly withdraws from her and she's dangling from the brass loops, her skin tingling.

"Come back," she pleads before she can stop herself.

"What's the magic word?"

She tries a few unprintable ones before he takes pity on her.

"Hold on," he cautions her, tapping her hands where they're gripping the brass rings.

"What do you think I've been – " she stops talking abruptly when he sinks deeply inside her, sighing with pleasure as she adjusts to the sensation.

"What were you saying?" he asks, his tone light, his hips moving just slowly enough that at least she knows it's killing him a little too, even if he's enjoying tormenting her far too much.

"Never mind," she says, with as much dignity as she can muster while she's tied to the wall.

He stops moving.

"Derek, I swear – "

"What do you swear?"

His fingers are moving and she hisses with pleasure, her thighs snapping together to trap the hand he withdraws just in time.

"Easy there, Bond girl," he says, a frown in his voice. "That's a very valuable hand you almost broke in two."

"But do your patients know what you do with it?" Addison asks sweetly, flinching a little in anticipation of retaliation that doesn't come.

He doesn't seem concerned with her taunts, just smoothing his hands over her flesh in a rather proprietary way that's making her skin tingle. The feeling of being at his mercy is – okay, fine, it's hot, and she doesn't really appreciate being left to her own devices. She shifts deliberately, trying to bring friction to her aching flesh – only to feel his hands on her thighs, separating them and taking away any chance she had of scratching her own itch.

"Patience," he reminds her.

She tugs at the brass loops connected to her wrists. "Fine, if you're not going to do this, then untie me."

"How about I _not do this_ , but also not untie you?" he asks pleasantly, and to her horror she feels him climbing off the bed.

"Derek!"

He doesn't answer.

She tugs on the brass loops again. "You had better not leave me here. Derek! Derek, where are you going?"

"I'm right here," he says, sounding amused. "You do know you can turn your head."

"Oh." She might have forgotten. She can't turn it much, but she does her best under the circumstances. He's standing just next to the bed, leaning against the wall, looking far too pleased with himself. She's just about to reach for him when she remembers her confinement.

"Untie me," she suggests.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you could use a hand," she says casually, lowering her eyes toward the evidence.

He smiles. "You look good in black silk," he responds, ignoring her offer. He reaches toward her bound hands and rubs his fingers along the material of the scarves. She inclines her body toward the warmth of his.

"Derek."

"Yes?"

She has to choose her words carefully, since the pulse between her thighs is threatening to destroy her and she doesn't want to hand him any ammunition.

"…nothing," she says finally.

"Addison Shepherd, at a loss for words?" He sounds amused. "I don't think so."

She feels the bed dip as he climbs onto it.

Thank _god._

And then she's thanking more than god because he's apparently remembered the whole point of the loops and the scarves and the whole trip; he's grabbed the loops too and he's pressed flush against her, filling her with heat. For a perfect few moments they're moving as one – the thrusts of his hips are calculated to leave her breathless; with her arms stretched up and bound she can't muffle the sounds that escape her lips. All she knows is that she's heading toward a crescendo that she needs now, right now, and then one of his hands isn't covering hers on the loop anymore. It's sliding down the front of her, pulling her back even closer to him and then skimming over the heartbeat between her thighs.

She flinches away from his fingers, aware that she's been begging him to touch her, but she's suddenly so sensitive she's not sure she can take it.

He backs off on her exhale, without her having to say anything, keeping his distance and keeping her on the edge all at the same time.

"Derek …"

He doesn't answer; it seems to be taking all his concentration to massage her close to the brink with one hand while he uses the brass ring with his other to leverage each thrust of his hips.

She's ready – she's more than ready – but then his hand drifts. Annoyed, she wriggles closer, trying to get his hand back where she wants it; he moves it just enough to keep her on the edge. She rattles the brass loops with frustration as his hands slides over her not quite where she needs them.

"Derek, would you _stop_ teasing me and just –"

All of a sudden, with a tremendous noise, the brass loops they've been clutching give way and with a rush of plaster and a loud tearing sound half the wall is falling with it.

They tumble to the bed in a spray of crumbled plaster and paint.

" … fuck me," Addison finishes in a small voice, her intended words taking on a different meaning now.

..

"Yes, I'm sure I'm okay. Because I know when I'm okay, Derek!" she adds at his doubtful look. He's brushing chunks of white plaster, dust, and some kind of insulation that she really hopes isn't asbestos, from her bare skin. "Would you please just untie me so I can try to cover up before – "

There's a loud knock on the door, concerned voices.

" – like I was saying," she continues, and he makes hasty work of the first black silk scarf, rubbing her freed wrist between his palms.

"Do the other, Derek. Quickly!"

"I'm trying." He pulls at the scarf.

"Try harder!" She rolls her eyes. "You couldn't listen to me about the sailor's knot."

He ignores her, fussing with the knot as she tries to help and he pushes her fingers away. It's loud and raucous outside the door, with shouts of concern and threats – offers? – to break it down.

"Hurry," she hisses.

Then the door bangs open, just as she shoves her still-bound hand under the covers, complete with brass ring and several hunks of wall attached.

"Doctor and Doctor Shepherd!" the concierge bleats, looking petrified. "Are you all right?"

Derek gets the sense from the uniformed man's mixed expression of confusion and horror that he's not the same concierge who installed the ill-fated brass rings on the wall. Either that, or he's a very good actor.

"We're fine," Derek says quickly. There are two firemen on either side of the concierge, and Derek sends up a brief prayer that Addison can control herself better than the time when they were residents and four burly firefighters needed treatment for smoke inhalation.

"Fine," Addison echoes.

All the men in the room survey them with some manner of doubt. Derek isn't sure why. It's rather insulting, actually.

Maybe it's their flushed skin – Addison's cheeks are glowing and although she's pulled the covers as high up as she could, the parts of her upper chest still showing are markedly rosy. And fine, they're breathing a little fast, but anyone would after having a wall crash down on them, no matter what they were doing beforehand.

Hopefully it's just down to the crumbled wall surrounding their bed, making it look as if a tornado hit.

Meanwhile, two more hotel employees show up while Addison looks like she'd like to disappear. They're arguing and fussing over the damage to the room all at once, the concierge falling over himself with apologies for their fright.

"You must have been so startled," one of the new hotel employees says sympathetically. This one is a woman, who seems to be taking the measure of them a little too suspiciously for Derek's taste. "For this to happen when you were in bed."

"We were sleeping," Derek says immediately.

"Sleeping," the woman echoes. Derek sees her glance at her watch, as if to remind herself that it's not even five o'clock yet.

"We were taking an afternoon nap," Addison says firmly, picking pieces of plaster out of her wildly snarled hair. Derek notices she's managed somehow to free her other hand.

She has talented fingers, his wife, but this is impressive even for her.

"Taking an afternoon nap," the concierge echoes.

Derek nods.

"We're sorry that this … happened," he says diplomatically, promising himself that if they can get out of this with what's left of their dignity intact, he'll pay for everything, "but if you could just find us another room – we were, uh, in the middle of something."

"I thought you were napping," the female hotelier says.

"Precisely," Addison responds with dignity, "we were in the middle of napping."

The firemen and the concierge exchange looks.

"Of course, madam," the concierge says. "We'll let you get dressed – I mean, get ready – and then I'll show you to a new room." He pauses. "We can have the hotel doctor come take a look at you."

"That won't be necessary," Addison says quickly, Derek nodding vigorously along with her. After their last interaction with the hotel doctor, he's not eager for another one.

Finally left to their own devices, they take one look at each other and start laughing helplessly.

"Red," Addison says after a moment, trying to catch her breath.

" _Now_ you say it." Derek picks another piece of plaster out of her hair. "Let's go find a new room that has four walls."

..

Dressed (well, in robes) and somewhat dignified, they stumble along the halls with the concierge while two other bellmen carry their luggage. They offered to bring it later, but Addison quickly averted the potential disaster of another interruption.

Distracted, Addison barely glances at the first room; the concierge interprets it as a failure and ushers them to another, even larger, suite.

"Now _this_ room – " the concierge begins.

Addison's eyes are glazing over. "We'll take it," she says quickly.

"Are you sure? You did request a VIP room, and we want you to be satisfied."

"Believe me, so do we – " she yelps a little when Derek pinches her.

"It's just that this suite has – "

"It's fine."

"Why don't I just show you – "

"Oh my god, don't show us another room," Addison blurts.

"This one is perfect," Derek says hastily when the concierge looks hurt.

"But it has – "

"That's fine," Addison says.

"It doesn't have – "

"I don't _care_ ," Addison snaps, apparently finally sexually frustrated enough to forget her manners whole hog. "Just leave us alone!"

"Addison." Derek frowns. "I'm so sorry," he tells the concierge. "When my wife is … awakened ... she can be grumpy."

"Ah. I understand. Some sleeping will revive her, then?"

"I hope so," Derek says sincerely. "Thank you so much for your time and – "

"Good night," Addison says pointedly, the door closing with a decisive click before anyone can point out that it's not exactly _night._

..

"Ugh, I thought he would never leave." Addison drops her robe to the ground, then looks confused when Derek doesn't move.

"I said, I thought he would never – "

"I heard you."

"Well then why aren't you … ?" She gestures down her very naked body. Which, in fairness, is very distracting.

But.

He's seen so much of it since they left Seattle that it isn't as difficult to ignore it as it could have been, and worth it for how frustrated she's becoming, a rosy flush spreading from her cheeks down her long neck.

"Derek … what are you trying to pull?"

"Nothing," he says innocently, raising both hands – both because he knows it will get a rise out of her and because it will keep him from automatically placing those same hands on her body.

"I can't wait any longer!"

"Sure you can," he says casually.

Her eyebrows raise so high he thinks they might disappear altogether. "The last time you tried to make me wait we broke the hotel."

"True." Derek glances around the living room, which has several tempting but decorative-looking columns. "I'll stay away from load-bearing structures this time."

And he doesn't make a move to touch her.

"Fine, then I can just finish it myself," she snaps.

"Actually … you can't."

"What do you mean, I can't?"

"I _mean_ … it's my birthday."

He walks toward her – she sighs audibly as he approaches and he can see her starting to melt; it's flattering, really, even though all he does when he gets there is turn her around and draw both long arms behind her back.

"Derek?" She turns to look at him over her shoulder. He points toward the opposite wall and, somewhat grudgingly, she turns back.

Then he pulls one of the silk scarves from his pocket. He rubs the skin on her wrists gently first, and when she pushes them closer to him he wraps them in the silk scarf, deciding on a festive bow to tie it – it _is_ his birthday. He tugs her hands gently apart to confirm the strength of the knots. Addison is waiting patiently – well, _somewhat_ patiently. She keeps shifting her weight from foot to foot in a way that suggests she's having trouble staying focused.

He busies himself checking the fabric of the scarf again, then runs his hands gently up her captured arms, coming to rest on her shoulders.

"Derek…"

"Shh," he tells her, staying far enough back that her body can't press into his. He can feel her frustration.

"Derek!"

"Addison. I thought the scarves were my present."

"They _were_ , but …"

"…but you still wanted to be in charge?" He moves some of her sex-tousled hair off her neck so he can press a row of kisses to its long elegant lines. "Why am I not surprised?"

She doesn't deny it, but she doesn't protest either, just squirming lightly under his hands as he makes his slow, deliberate way along the side of her neck. He lifts handfuls of hair away from her nape to kiss that too, then lets his mouth drift to the other side of her neck. Slowly, deliberately, he starts the reflection of the previous journey.

Addison is very still underneath his hands and lips – but only on the outside. He can feel the faint vibrations under her skin, the way her muscles clench as he brushes sensitive flesh. He's still only touched her neck and shoulders but the breaths leaving her mouth are uneven already.

"Derek." She turns around to face him. "I don't mean to be unadventurous … but should we check out the bedroom?"

"We can check out the bedroom," he says agreeably, "but I'm pretty sure we took this suite no-backsies."

"No-backsies." She sounds amused. "Is that the legal term?"

"You'd have to ask Weiss and Savvy."

At the names of their friends they both fall silent for a moment, a little ruefully, wondering what their favorite lawyers might make of their latest debacle.

"We'll pay for the damage," Addison says finally, her tone bright.

And that's that.

"Bedroom?" she prompts.

He lets her walk first, enjoying the view, although she needs him to open the knob.

The vast bedroom is far more than they need, with an enormous plank of a bed low to the ground and covered in white. He takes quick note of the sleek table and chairs under the window, the desk, a closet almost large enough to satisfy his wife, and thick carpeting under his feet.

"Derek …"

Addison's eyes are beseeching. She doesn't even complain about her bound hands; impressed, he leads her over to the bed, pausing at its edge to capture her lips with his. Gently, he pushes her down to sit.

And with a shriek, she falls off.

"Addison!"

He's kneeling over her on the ground, pulling her to a seated position, guilt flooding him. She must have been off-balance with her wrists tied. This is his fault. His hands skim over her, assuring him she's not injured.

"I'm so sorry – "

Her shoulders are shaking – it's not like her to cry over something like this, but he knows emotions are high from their earlier activities. "Addie?" He brushes some of her tousled hair away from her face.

"It's a _waterbed_ ," she bleats, and he sees that it's laughter shaking her body, not tears. "Derek, that's what the concierge was trying to say. He was trying to tell us it's a waterbed."

"A waterbed?" He reaches over to touch the mattress – only to be bounced back up like he's trying to press on a bowl of jell-o. "What is this, 1985?"

"Maybe it's retro," she says faintly. "Or ironic. I don't know. I just know it's – "

– not going to stand up to what they want to do with it.

Resolute, he stands up and then lifts her to her feet. "You sure you're okay?"

She nods.

"Good." He reaches for the sleek white telephone on the desk.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting us a bed we won't drown in," he says simply.

..

Preserving their dignity for the second room switch is something of a challenge – thankfully the bow on Addison's wrists was easy to untie this time.

Explaining to the weary concierge that they both have bad backs, Derek carefully assesses the mattress before they agree to the next room.

"It's not a suite," the concierge says apologetically.

 _We really only need the bedroom anyway._

"That's fine," Addison assures him; perhaps sensitive to his concern for them, she praises the floor to ceiling windows in the large room and he looks a little happier.

And then, finally, he's gone.

Addison sighs when the door clicks shut.

"Well, it's been a long day," she says. "I think I need to sleep."

"Oh." Derek hides his disappointment as best he can. "Of course. Why don't you lie down, and – "

Addison can't seem to keep a straight face. "Derek, I was _kidding._ "

"Well, it wasn't funny." He pulls her toward him by the waist strap of her robe.

"It was a little funny," she counters as he makes short work of the strap and pushes the robe off her shoulders, and she does the same to his. He pulls her close for a moment, enjoying the feel of her, then pauses.

"I think I left the scarf in the other room," he says.

Addison produces a handful of black silk from the pocket of her robe.

He smiles; then, when she pushes her robe to the floor and turns away from him, dangling the black silk over her shoulder for him to grab, his smile turns to something else entirely.

"Are you sure you're not too tired?" he asks, picking up one of her wrists and rubbing the skin gently.

"Just do it," she says.

"A true romantic," he pronounces sarcastically. He pulls her flush against him for a moment, waiting until she wriggles impatiently to release her.

And then he pulls her wrists behind her for his best sailor's knot.

She turns to face him, looking very pleased. "I _love_ do-overs," she says, and he draws her into his arms – even if the waterbed caused her fall in the other room, he doesn't want to take a chance with her losing her balance in this one.

They exchange a few slow, sweet kisses; he brushes her hair away from her face, palming one of her cheeks, and she smiles up at him. He's holding her close, his hands gentle on her sensitive skin, and she sighs a little against his neck before she pulls back to look at him again.

"Derek?"

"Yes, Addison?"

"… if I wanted _sweet_ , I wouldn't have asked you to tie me up."

He raises his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, whose birthday is it?"

"Your birthday was on the plane."

"And yet, you gave me the scarves." He holds her away by the shoulders, shaking his head with mock disappointment.

"Derek – "

Her protest dies on her lips because he's dropped to his knees for a fairly decent imitation of her performance in their first hotel room this morning. He has to support all her weight to keep her from falling, but her reaction is rewarding enough to make up for it.

Rewarding, and then outraged when he stops.

"What?" he asks innocently when he's back to his full height, enjoying her glazed eyes and flushed cheeks.

"I would never leave you hanging," she pouts.

"You're a better person than I am," he says simply, watching as she tugs experimentally on the scarf binding her hands, perhaps wondering how difficult it would be to seek relief herself. She inclines her body toward his; he turns her around, sliding his hands down the curves of her side and scattering kisses on her shoulders.

She makes appreciative noises, but continues straining for more of his touch; he moves deftly out of the way when she does, never taking his hands off her but never letting her have the full body contact she's seeking either.

"Derek," she pleads finally, and her eyes are dark with need when she looks over her shoulder.

They've always enjoyed teasing each other, but the request she whispers is enough for him to lead her toward the mercifully sturdy bed in response.

She's only too happy when he encourages her to lie face **-** down, and then disappointed, it seems, when he lifts her all the way onto the bed instead of succumbing to her obvious invitation hanging half off it.

"Derek …"

Her voice is slightly muffled by the duvet.

"Don't say _just do it_ ," he warns her. He's palming the soft skin of her back, her hips, her hamstrings, in steady slow strokes. She doesn't – not with words, but her faintly vibrating muscles are begging for it loudly all the same.

He ignores her unspoken demands, taking his time and enjoying the sensations; she's wriggling against the mattress, apparently still convinced she can find enough friction to finish the job herself.

Turning her over seems like a shame when the view from this angle is so spectacular, but he has plans so he carefully flips her onto her back, making sure there's not too much pressure on her bound wrists.

He could untie and retie them, he thinks, so that she doesn't have to lie on her arms. But this position adds an extra arch to her back, tilting her head and neck and he decides it's worth it. He can see in the flex of her muscles the exact moment she goes to link her arms around his neck – muscle memory – and pull him down on top of her.

She can't, of course, since her wrists are bound underneath her. Leaning close, he whispers in her ear: "Want me to untie you?"

It's an unfair question, maybe, since one of his hands is skimming up her thigh in time with his words.

"Don't you dare," she retorts, arching against him.

"I was hoping you'd say that," he admits, and swallows her response with his lips.

She's so sensitive to his touch by this point that keeping her on the edge of the cliff is extraordinarily difficult. It's not that he wants to deny her pleasure – and if he can believe her body's obvious tells, she's certainly no stranger to pleasure right now. He has to steel himself against her pleas, reminding himself that although _Addison_ and _delayed gratification_ are not two concepts he'd normally associate, it's his job to make her see the light.

And he takes his job seriously.

"Derek … are you trying to kill me?" she asks at one point, words as staccato as her breaths, but he just smiles down at her, returning his lips to the sensitive skin of her neck and pinning her desperately flexing hips to the mattress.

The third time she orders him to touch her, he waves his hand in front of her flushed face and reminds her that she bit him in the cab.

"So bite me back!" she snaps, and he has to press his face to the soft swell of her breasts to muffle a laugh.

"The scarves were your idea," he reminds her, "so stop backseat driving."

"It's just one scarf now," she corrects him, hissing a little at his probing fingers.

Grinning at her, he leaves the bed long enough to grab his discarded robe and reach into the pocket.

"You had the other one all along!" She tries, and fails, to sit up, looking somewhere between annoyed and impressed. "What are you going to do with it?" she asks warily as he approaches.

"That depends," he says, pausing. "How much birthday do I have left?"

..

"Derek, if you make me recite the traffic signals again, I'm getting a chastity belt," Addison snaps finally, as his hands hover near her face.

"Fine," he says grouchily, and at the eager inclination of her neck, he slips the black scarf around her eyes and ties it neatly at the bright back of her head before lowering it back down to the bed.

Leaning over her, he pulls the front of his hair low, like the ill-advised bangs he had the first year of medical school. She's never been able to see that without commenting, and when she's silent, he knows the blindfold worked.

"Derek?" she asks, sounding a little uncertain.

"I'm right here." He brushes some of her long hair away from her face. It's damp with perspiration; even for them, it's been a long night.

(And it's not even night yet.)

He strokes her hair, studying her flushed face, a little worried it's too much for her. Teasing her for this long is work for both of them; her trembling thighs must be exhausted, not to mention the pressure on her bound arms. She probably needs a break.

"Addie," he starts gently. "Why don't we – "

"Green, damn it, before _my_ birthday," she snaps impatiently, and his worries melt away.

She's a pretty amazing woman.

He tells her this as he stretches out alongside her; she mutters something about _show, don't tell_ , and he gets back to work obediently.

Blindfolded, she can't see or anticipate his movements, and after her first sigh of pleasure when he starts touching her again, he can see the frustration start building.

He varies his grip and his speed, watching her body's visible response every time he changes course. Her hips rise impressively to meet the barest of kisses he's scattering on her upper thighs – he supposes that Pilates is to thank for that one.

Slowly, he increases the pressure, enjoying the way she moves against his hand, desperately seeking more contact. Her hips are pleading along with her lips but again and again, he strokes her almost to the edge and then withdraws.

He knows she's frustrated, cursing each time he disappoints her – which earns her a pinch or a slap now, making her hiss with what he knows is pleasure. It's been a while since he's had the time – and, admittedly, the inclination – to work her into a frenzy like this. The blindfold is only adding to it and watching her thrash within the confines of her bound arms is making him worry he's not going to last long enough to give in to her. His hands are millimeters over her pleading flesh and he knows she can tell even though she can't see, arching further off the bed with longing. Her hands are bound but her legs are free, and when she tries to trap him with her powerful thighs, to draw him close enough that their bodies can join, he resists and pushes her flat to the bed again.

"Damn it, Derek, are you going to leave me like this all night?"

He considers it.

Without question, there's something powerful about having her at his mercy like this, thighs splayed invitingly, tangled hair spread out on rumpled blankets, flushed with arousal. With her expressive eyes covered, he has to read the rest of her face, her quivering lips and the beseeching set of her jaw.

He could finish this right now. She's been so close, each time, begging him – it wouldn't take much to send her over the edge – and what an edge it would be.

And then he could untie her wrists, massage the marks away and, based on how he feels right now, take another millisecond to join her and then they could find blissful sleep in the disarray of white sheets.

He closes his eyes for a moment, debating with himself. When he opens them, he sees her smiling at him – even with her eyes covered, he can tell they're smiling too. That's how recognizable her smile is.

A very Addison smile.

A smile of victory.

She thinks she's won.

She's so easy to read that he's filled with a sudden rush of affection, so he stops to plant a kiss on her lips to soothe her disappointment before abandoning her lower body altogether.

"Derek …?"

The uncertainty in her voice amuses him.

"What?" he asks, feigning confusion.

He sees her shift her splayed thighs, no longer seeming certain he's about to satisfy her. When his hands come to rest on them – enjoying the silky skin covering straining muscle – she sighs a little in anticipation.

He holds her open for one tantalizing moment and then slides down the bed; her cry of disappointment turns into one of surprise as he kneels on the carpet, holding her on the edge of the bed.

She's very quiet for a moment, during which he hefts her long legs over his shoulders and then puts lips and tongue to good work, alternating handfuls and mouthfuls of soft flesh. She moans in response, shifting as much as she can in her restrained position and whimpering a little when he bares the faintest hint of his teeth.

He's careful, knowing how sensitive she is. She tends to direct him in this position, to knot her fingers into his hair to guide his lips and control the pressure. The loss of that opportunity isn't lost on either of them. He grips her legs firmly – it takes all of his strength to keep her from sealing his ears shut, and he needs to be able to hear her to monitor her responses. She's frustrated and finally he pins her to the mattress with his forearms, muscling her down sufficiently to preserve what's left of his hearing.

Any protest dies on her lips when gets back to work. She has little room to move under him but he feels her undulating anyway, pulling back when her breathing changes to check on her.

"You okay?"

He can see from the folds of the silk scarf how tightly her eyes are squeezed shut, her lower lip caught between her teeth. The arched position she's in has tipped her head back in an imitation of ecstasy and he doesn't want to look too hard in case he's the one who loses control next.

"Addie."

"I'm _fine_ ," she hisses. "Derek, please…"

Her long white body spread out on whiter sheets – he maps all its recognizable dips and curves, bones and muscle. It's a canvas of their adventures since they left Seattle: the bruise on her shin from the airplane bathroom and on her back from the ferryboat railing …

"Please," she whispers again.

With a last kiss on the inside of one quivering thigh, he lifts her back onto the bed and joins her, untying the blindfold. She blinks into the relative brightness.

He slides the black silk scarf down her body, massaging her lightly, and then tosses it onto the mattress.

"Derek…"

She's looking up at him from under her lashes, her eyes huge, and he's not sure how much longer he can hold out.

He takes one of her smooth calves in his hand and props her leg on his shoulder, readying himself over her. "Happy birthday to me," he says, entering welcoming warmth at the angle he knows from experience will push her over the edge and letting her explosive finish carry him with her.

..

Time melts into nothing other than staggered breathing and pure, unadulterated release.

For a long time, neither of them moves.

When they do, finally, it's in small shaky doses, just enough for Derek to free Addison's bound wrists and hoist both of them far enough up the bed to collapse. His body is screaming for sleep, but he forces enough energy to massage the muscles of her shoulders and upper arms, strained from being tied underneath her. She purrs with relief at his ministrations, and it's worth it.

Then she curls into him like a cat, and he drops a kiss on the top of her head.

"You okay?" He strokes the familiar long curve of her back, resting his palm on the closest hipbone.

"Um … I don't think I'm going to be able to walk tomorrow."

He's starting to slide into sleep, his face pillowed on softness, one of his hands now lazily tracing circles on her soft skin.

Addison doesn't sound particularly bothered by her prediction, just matter-of-fact.

But he knows her. She'll recover.

"I know what you're thinking," she murmurs against his neck; her body feels warm and loose after his massage.

"Oh, really?" He's a little more awake now. "What am I thinking?"

"You're thinking I'll recover."

… okay, fine, she knows what he's thinking.

"I just know you, that's all," he says with dignity.

"Yeah, you do." She tilts her head to smile up at him, her eyes soft and tired, and he's almost positive she's actually asleep before her head hits his shoulder again.

The thing is … he does know her.

He's fairly certain she'll recover.

But if she doesn't? Well … he's also fairly certain they're both creative enough to figure something out.

After all, they're Derek and Addison.

And they don't quit.

* * *

 _ **Sorry not sorry, guys. I remain convinced Addek has it in 'em. Remember: "We used to be really good at this!" So ... pretty please review and tell me you're as shameless an Addek lover as I am. You can also tell me which Addek you'd most like to see updated next, but don't forget to throw some love on this story too. I need reviews like Addison and Derek need a cold shower and a good night's sleep. xoxo**_


	7. catchers

**A/N: The antidote to a sad Addek posting spree? It might just be _this_ Addek. Remember them? They're insatiable, they're in New York, and they're in dire need of legal counsel ... as well as a cold shower or two. Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

 **Six Miles High, Part Seven  
** _ **Catchers**_

* * *

"Oh, god." Addison tips her head back, moaning. "It's so big. I can't."

"Really?" Derek grins at her, his expression nothing less than lascivious. "Because from my angle, you're doing pretty well so far."

"Really. I'm done." She sighs mournfully. "I just can't fit any more in me, no matter how much I want to." She pauses, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. "And believe me, Derek … I want to. I really, really want to."

"If you say so, Addie … but I've seen you take a lot more than that."

"But I was younger then," Addison pouts, casting a longing glance at what's left of the thick, sugar-dusted Belgian waffle tempting her from its china plate, " _and_ I had a higher metabolism."

"That's fair," Derek says, wincing when she plucks a grape from the crystal dish of fruit sitting on the tray between them and throws it at him.

"What?"

"You said my metabolism used to be higher!"

"Actually, that was _you_ who said it." Derek reaches for one of the projectile grapes, satisfied when Addison ducks, and pops it into his mouth instead of throwing it at her. "I know we're spending a lot of time together, but surely you can still tell us apart if you really try?"

"Fine." She draws her legs up under her, smoothing her white robe.

It's been a slow, delicious morning so far, starting with sun soaking through the floor-to-ceiling windows – far brighter than their usual wake-up calls in Seattle. Her body was warm and pliant against this, but she fended him off gently, pleading soreness.

(She made it up to him, spectacularly so, and he's certainly not complaining.)

And then Derek ordered a generous breakfast to replenish them only to find that Addison, who'd darted to the bathroom to freshen up, was doing the same thing from the phone by the giant soaking tub.

… which is why the very large bed in their hotel room is pretty much covered completely at this point. Two very full platters, two very satisfied Shepherds … and a partridge in a pear tree.

Addison leans back against the pillows now, an express of sleepy satisfaction on her face – which is clean and bare of makeup, making her look young and …

Never mind. Not innocent. Not innocent at all.

"Addie, I thought you wanted to take a break," he points out. "Not that I'm complaining."

"I didn't," she says. "I mean, I did, but not because I want to. It's my body that wants to."

"Ah." He nods, spearing a piece of melon with the dainty silver fork. Addison's breakfast choices were clearly designed with him in mind, touchingly so: fresh fruit, the cultured yogurt she used to buy for him in Manhattan that he pretended was snooty but actually loved – even the baguette is whole grain, though Addison has said more than once that whole wheat baguette is an insult to the entire French nation.

"Is that good?" she asks, smiling at him.

"Very good." He reaches out to brush a crumb lingering at the corner of her mobile mouth, and she nips at his fingers. "In fact, it's one of the best things I've eaten this whole trip."

" _Derek._ " She shakes her head, though she can't seem to hide her smile.

"What? I was talking about Savvy and Weiss's brunch."

"You'd better not have been talking about Savvy and Weiss's brunch," she retorts immediately.

"Don't worry … I wasn't."

He leans in to kiss her. She tastes of the espresso he ordered for her, complete with detailed Addison-style instructions in order for it to meet her approval.

She kisses him back, then groans into his mouth.

Not moans … _groans._

"Addison?"

"Sorry. I'm just … full." She sighs, resting a hand on her stomach through the thick terrycloth fabric of the hotel-issued robe. "Maybe two breakfasts was too many."

"I'm sure we'll work off the calories later," he says.

She throws her hand in the air now. "There you go calling me fat again."

" _Again_." Derek shakes his head. "That … is demonstrably false. And if it helps," he inches closer to her, causing the assorted dishes to rattle ominously, "I'd be happy to undertake a full inspection."

She laughs a little, then loosens the belt around her waist.

"I probably didn't need that second waffle," she admits.

"… but who's counting?" Derek asks.

She's considering throwing something else at him – a grape, or maybe something heavier like a coffee cup or the sleek armoire in the corner – but he rests a chaste hand on her belly without making fun of her … much … so she decides against it.

There's always later, and there are plenty of projectiles around.

So maybe she'll give him a chance to make it up to her.

..

He takes the chance.

When he runs her a bubble bath in the oversized soaking tub, which is miraculously long enough for her to stretch her legs out full length while they sit on opposite sides, he keeps a respectable distance _and_ pulls her feet into his lap to massage them. The hot water is soothing and rejuvenating all at once, and as for his practiced hands dissolving all the tension in her muscles … well, there are no words for that.

Where was this Derek the last time they were both in New York?

She doesn't say it out loud – which is about half not wanting to ruin the moment and half not being able to form articulate words while those incredible fingers are digging into all the right spots on her instep where her beloved shoes tend to leave their mark.

She can tell him later. She can –

 _Ooh_.

"Addie, you okay?"

"Yeah." She sits up a little against the slippery side of the tub. "Just – drowning a little."

"You want me to stop?" he asks, lifting his hands off her feet, his expression innocent as if he doesn't know what her answer will be.

In fact, he says it along with her.

 _Don't you dare._

..

After a bath so chaste Weiss would be proud – especially considering two wet, naked, slippery bodies – he coaxes her outside to walk off their breakfast, ducking a little in case she interprets it as a third dig at her nonexistent extra poundage –

"Weiss would be _so_ happy with all the sex we're not having," Addison points out brightly. She shivers a little, pulling her jacket closer around her.

"Cold?" Derek asks.

"A little," she admits, pleased when he wraps an arm around her and draws her into the warmth of his side.

Pleased … and smug, Derek decides, because he's known his wife a long time and he's well aware of the different between a Cold shiver and a Here's an Excuse to Touch Me shiver.

He decides not to tell her, though. He saves the information for when it would be more valuable.

"Look at us, walking down the street," Derek announces. He turns to Addison with a proud smile. "We're not causing any problems."

"We're fully dressed," she says, causing an elderly woman walking her dog to cast them a confused glance.

"If Weiss could see us now," Addison continues, dreamily.

"Should we call him?" Derek asks.

They snicker together in a way they probably wouldn't want to admit and then Derek closes his hand over Addison's before she can send the rather smug text they crafted together.

" … maybe we should just make sure we get through the day first," he says reluctantly. "You know, not count our chickens before they hatch."

"Chickens," Addison says thoughtfully. " _Eggs._ You know, you're reminding me, the quail egg at Fourchette is supposed to best outside of Paris."

Derek schools his face in what he hopes is an expression suggesting that this news excites him. Not that he minds a nice restaurant, and Addison did show him a sample menu. The fluke crudo was just more his style.

"Are we going?" he asks. "Or should I say … is Michel still speaking to you?"

"He is. Believe it or not." Addison pauses. "You know, I didn't tell him why we were staying longer. I didn't want him to judge us. Not that he would," she adds, tilting her head. "I mean, he _is_ French."

"What does that mean?"

"Oh, nothing."

"If this is another reference to your semester abroad, Addie, I already know that you made it a point to sample a morsel in every _arrondissement_."

"Excuse me," she says with dignity, "you do realize I was nineteen."

"You do realize that doesn't contradict anything I said."

She glares at him. "I'm sorry I wasn't as wholesome as you were in college, Derek, with your scholarship to … play catch."

"Division Two baseball is not the same thing as _playing catch_ ," he says sharply.

Addison tilts her head. "Weren't you the catcher?"

"That's not the same – you know what, forget it. Go ahead and make fun of my college athletic career – which paid for all four years of private school, as you know. We don't all have trust funds."

"Yes, you mentioned that a time or two." She's looking past him, an annoyed expression on her face, and he feels a little bad.

"Look, I just mean that if you're really so anti-baseball, you could stop carrying around that picture of me from senior year in your wallet."

Addison's cheeks flush. "It's a good picture."

"You do realize I'm wearing a cup."

"Don't spoil it." She tucks her hand through his arm. "Let's just walk, okay? Maybe the weather will hold and we can play some … catch."

..

They end up in a little café that looks, to his eyes, much like the three previous cafés vetoed passionately by Addison.

"Mm." Addison sips her coffee – rich, black, and just the way she likes it. "This was a good idea."

"It really was." His spirits are surprisingly high – at their little marble topped table in the café that smells of freshly-baked croissants and espresso beans expensive enough to please even his wife.

She smiles at him. "Thanks for suggesting a walk."

"Thanks for consenting," he says, hoping the word _consent_ doesn't set either of them off.

Addison just looks at him over the rim of her coffee cup, eyes very blue in this light. He feels a surprising rush of warmth toward her.

"You know what, I think this is great." He leans back in the chair. "We're these … adult, civilized people who can be out on parole and still sit in a café and just – Addison, what are you doing?"

"Sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "

"You were thinking about my baseball picture, weren't you." He raises an eyebrow. "Addison … admit it."

"No," she says.

"Liar." He holds out his hand. "Give it to me. I'm rescinding your rights to my athletic prowess if you're only going to use it for … dirty reasons."

She snatches her purse onto her lap. "Absolutely not. That picture is mine."

"Give it to me. I'm throwing it out."

"Over my dead body!"

"Addison, I'm not even twenty-one in that picture. Is it even legal for you to – " He lowers his voice to a hiss. " _Use_ it? At your age?"

She sits up very tall in her seat. "Did you really just call me old, after calling me fat three times this morning?"

Her voice is loud enough to attract a dark stare from the two women sitting at the table next to theirs.

… because this is New York, and there's barely even room for the holy spirit between tables, of course.

One of the women, a blonde with large sunglasses on top of her head, gives Addison a sympathetic look.

Derek frowns at her.

"Whatever," one of the women says in a tone he doesn't care for. "That guy is definitely punching above his weight."

He hopes Addison didn't hear – it would be just like her to claim the word _weight_ was yet another person erroneously calling her fat. And that too, he's certain, would be his fault.

He sees the way the women at the next table are shooting Addison sympathetic looks – when he didn't even call her old! – and feels heat rush to his face, bringing with it a wave of annoyance that sweeps in and replaces the tenderness that surprised him earlier.

Apparently Addison isn't satisfied turning everyone in Seattle against him in favor of her own dubious – and adulterous – position, she has to bring it to New York too.

"Are you finished?" he asks abruptly, indicating her coffee cup.

She looks a little surprised, but nods.

"Then let's go." He slaps a twenty on the table and stands up quickly enough for the wrought-iron chair to scrape the floor loudly.

Addison winces a little, but follows him out the door into the crisp spring air.

"Derek – is something wrong? Was it those women? They were idiots."

He's walking quickly down the sidewalk, but so is she, and she grabs his arm to slow him down. " _Derek._ Can you just stop and talk to me?"

"Forget it." He slows his pace, forcing a smile. "It's fine. Everything's fine."

"Don't do that." She stops fully, causing a woman behind her to trip and call Addison a few colorful names, which she ignores.

"Do what?"

"Say things are fine when they're not. That's how we got into this mess."

"I thought we got into this mess when you slept with my best friend."

This time, two men are passing, and both turn to look at the Shepherds with interest.

Addison's cheeks are very pink as she grabs his arm and steers him into a covered doorway. "I know you think that's how we got into this … mess, but it takes two people."

"Yes," he says shortly. "You and Mark."

"Derek, come on. You did say you were partly to blame." She looks a little uncertain. "That night, in the trailer. You said you were absent, and – "

"I remember," he cuts her off.

"Okay, then." She studies her hands. When she looks up at him her eyes are shining and in spite of himself he feels a little stab of guilt. "Derek … I'm sorry. I really am. I'll say it as many times as you need me to."

"Forget it." He looks away.

She touches his arm. "I know you said we didn't need to see the counselor anymore – "

"He was a quack."

"True, but – maybe we could see someone else."

"No." He shakes his head. "There's no reason."

"There's a reason." Her voice is tremulous. "Fixing our marriage is the reason."

"Addison." He massages the bridge of his nose. No one can give him a headache quite like his wife. "We're already … trying."

"We're trying," she repeats, nodding slowly.

"We're trying," he confirms.

"Okay." She glances at him. "Because Kathleen did offer, if we were back in town …."

"Kathleen?" His eyes widen. "Kathleen … Shepherd? Addison, we're not going to be … _marriage-counseled_ by my sister.

"Why not? She sees a lot of couples."

"Because she's my sister," he says, very slowly and loudly, as if Addison is hard of hearing.

She lifts her chin stubbornly. "Fine, Derek. But if you're still this angry with me – "

'I'm not angry with you."

"Honey, come on. You blew up at Savvy and Weiss's– "

"No, I didn't."

"You practically called Savvy a whore!"

"She's not the one I was trying to call a whore," he says pointedly.

She stops talking, her face flushing a little more. The wind picks up around them, moving a cloud of red hair around her face. She swipes it out of the way angrily, and when she's finished there's no trace of tears in her eyes.

Just anger.

"You know what, Derek? You can be a real jerk when we're not in bed."

"Likewise," he snaps. "Except your … jerkiness extends to bed sometimes – like when I find you in ours with my best friend."

"Ass," she scowls.

"Adulterous – "

" _Okay._ " She interrupts him. Now she's massaging her temples, apparently no stranger to marital headaches. "Look, can we just … not fight?"

"Apparently not," he says.

"Right. Can we at least … try to get along."

"Why?" he asks daringly.

"Because we're married," Addison says, her voice soft. "Because I'm your wife, and you're my husband, and it's your birthday weekend, and we're … trying, Derek, we're trying. You agreed that we were trying."

He doesn't say anything.

"And if that doesn't convince you … well, there are two police officers about ten feet away." She indicates the two blue-uniformed men at the corner with a subtle movement of her chin. "And I'm pretty sure if we get arrested for brawling on a public street they'll rip up our Desk Appearance Tickets and throw us in jail and Weiss won't like that at all … and neither will we."

Derek considers all the moles he was compelled to examine during their brief time in lockup.

Then he studies Addison's face. Some of the stubbornness has melted away, and she looks … anxious.

"I guess you're right." He sighs. "I don't want to fight," he admits, a little grudgingly.

"Me neither." She leans in, her expression grateful, and kisses his cheek. "Let's go back to the hotel and – maybe go swimming. We still haven't tried out the rooftop pool. It's glassed-in and heated and actually the architect had in mind – "

He tunes out the rest of the architectural backdrop, but nods his assent. They're halfway down the block when he stops short. "Addie. Did you pack a bathing suit?"

"Oh," she says. "Well … no. But actually lingerie is – "

" – not a very good idea, considering our legal status," Derek finishes.

She nods glumly.

..

So the pool is out.

Which means they're back in the hotel.

The non-suite.

The all-a-bed room.

But they're being careful.

Chaste, and careful.

"Maybe I'm not sore anymore," Addison proposes, making short work of the buttons on Derek's shirt and pushing it off his shoulders, stopping to run appreciative hands over the muscles she's exposed.

"That would be great," he says, stripping her lightweight sweater over her head, causing a cloud of staticky red hair to cling to them both, "but I saw you wincing when you got into the cab."

Ugh.

She's down to blue silk panties that he purposefully left on – they're indigo, she bought them for him, and apparently there going to be a whole rainbow of tantalizing underwear on this trip and he can't complain.

"This is so frustrating." She flops next to him, one hand resting on his stomach a little too close for comfort to the waistband of his paisley-printed boxers.

"I know." He smooths her static-wild hair. It's actually the most sane her hair has looked since this weekend began, come to think of it. Her expression tells him she's thinking the same thing.

"Derek." She sits up, then gets to her knees, pulling him with her. "I'm dying here. I'm pretty sure I'm dying."

"Well, good thing I'm a doctor." He pulls her close, which is – a mistake, she's warm and melts into him and they're both just going to end up more frustrated.

Sure enough, she flops back on the bed. "I hate my body," she scowls.

"I don't." Derek drops beside her and places a relatively chaste kiss on her shoulder.

She shivers, just enough to give him an idea. "Addie … do you know that some women can orgasm without any genital contact at all?"

"I'm a gynecologist. Of course I know that."

"Well?" He props up on his elbow. "Have you?

"Have _I_?" She repeats. "Wouldn't you know if I had?"

They both pause, the awkwardness of the question drifting away with merciful speed.

"I haven't," she says. She grabs his hand and directs it where she's most in need of the feel of him. "So how about we just – ow!"

"Addie, we have to wait," he says patiently, even though he feels anything but at the prospect of withdrawing from that heavenly warmth.

"But I hate waiting," she pouts, and is grateful that he doesn't take the opportunity to make a crack about delayed gratification and best-friend-adultery.

"You know, if you're that sore … but you don't want to wait … we do have another option." He massages her shoulder with one hand, the other hand sliding down the curve of her side.

"Absolutely not," she says firmly.

"Why not?"

"Because I have to be in the mood, you know that."

He glances around the vast hotel room, with the oversized bed and the bottle of champagne on ice the concierge tactfully left for them. "I'm so confused. Is this _not_ the mood?"

"You know what I mean."

"Plus … it's my birthday."

She takes one look at his hang-dog expression and rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, you said that the first time, Derek, on your twenty-third if you recall, and then I ended up at the university health center the next morning."

"Okay, that one's on me," he says hastily, "but in my defense I was twenty-three … barely. I was an idiot. I think I've learned a little since then."

"Besides … practice makes perfect."

"Aren't you already perfect?" he asks innocently.

She can't help but smile at his expression. It's making it hard to maintain a strong denial.

It's not like she's actually saying no, anyway. Derek knows her well enough to know that there are certain things she won't do without refusing three times first – _just like converting to Judaism!_ Savvy said with delight when she first realized the connection.

Derek's always been willing to humor her. It's not that she doesn't like it. Far from it. It's just somehow more enjoyable when she feels like she's being talked into it.

(Is that weird? Whatever. She's going to figure all this out when his birthday weekend – week, whatever – is over. She'll go to a sex therapist or something. Assuming she can walk by then.)

Truthfully, though, she misses the feeling of him inside her and she doesn't want to wait any longer than she has to for more.

"Get in the shower," she suggests finally.

"Oh, are you the boss again?"

But his eyes are twinkling, maybe remembering like she is that the shower – slippery with soap – was the start of much of this.

They stay under the pounding spray long enough for their fingers to wrinkle before they return to the oversized bed. He has to take a minute to get his breath back at the sight of her lolling on the crisp white sheets, wide eyes heavy-lidded with lust and wet hair spread everywhere.

A smile tweaks the corner of her mouth when she sees him looking.

"Derek."

"Hm?"

"What are you waiting for?"

He doesn't need to be asked twice. His fingers explore her while his lips and tongue trace familiar paths on sensitive skin. She's chilled from the shower against his warm hands; they seek momentary refuse under the duvet, laughing, the adult version of a pillow fort. He's careful, gentle, staying outside her soreness. She looks down for a moment at the top of his head; he senses her movement and looks up to smile at her, licking his lips in a way that both turns her on and makes her want to laugh again.

And what's better than that combination?

The laughter dissipates quickly, though; between the steady pressure of his long fingers and the gentle flicks of his practiced tongue.

He doesn't tease her this time, just draws her right over the edge and then catches her when she falls, the fingers inside her holding her steady while he turns his cheek to rest on her inner thigh – the stubble against sensitive skin might kill her – and blows gentle puffs of air against heated flesh.

He presses a kiss to her thigh that has an air of formality; appreciative of his thoughtfulness, she nonetheless tugs on his curls. He looks up at her with surprise and she can't help smiling at his hopeful expression.

"Go for it," she says.

"Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be when I'm from Connecticut. _Derek._ " She grabs his face, laughing. "Do you need me to draw you a map?"

"Definitely not. I know where I'm going."

" _Know where you're going_ like that time you decided we would take back roads to the beach house and we ended up in – "

"No," he says firmly. "As in, actually know where I'm going." He pauses, then launches himself up to lie next to her, propping himself up on one elbow. "Not that I'm conceding the back roads issue, Addison. If I'd stayed on the expressway we would still have been driving around at Christmas."

"If you'd stayed on the expressway, we wouldn't have ended up in a real-life version of _Amityville Horror._ "

Derek frowns at her. "Those people were very nice."

"Those people could have killed us."

"Anyone could have killed us!" he replies, exasperated.

"And on that pleasant note …."

He can't help laughing at the expression on her face. "Should we drive out there tomorrow and see if we can find – "

" _No._ " She glares at him. "Besides, we're supposed to stay within the city limits."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot that we're outlaws."

"And now we can add another one to the list." She's grinning now. "Wait. Is sodomy still illegal?"

"I hope not," he says, "because I'd hate to see you jailed for one of your many talents."

She smiles a little at this.

"I've got his, Addie. I'm not going to get us lost – or killed."

She flops back on the pillows. "God … I hope you're right."

..

He was right.

Turns out … he did know exactly where he was going.

They didn't get lost.

But they did get exhausted.

She's boneless, muscles shaking, as tired as she is satisfied.

She knows he's exhausted too, but to his credit he nurses hers first, helping her into the ridiculously opulent attached bathroom and cleaning them both up. Her head lolls on his shoulder and he kisses her damp forehead.

"Finally knocked you out, huh?"

"Something like that." She's too tired for dignity; she wraps her arms around his neck and lets him slide a hand under her thighs to lift her.

Sleep comes almost as hard as she did. Curled into his side, her cheek resting against his heartbeat while one of her thighs covers his, she lets her eyes drift closed. His fingers trail over her back lightly, soothing her into sleep.

..

The sun has moved halfway along the floor by the time her eyes drift open.

Derek is already awake, smiling down at her.

"Better?" he asks.

"Um." She stretches a little, experimentally. "Does being sore in new places count as better?"

"It's close enough." He kisses her gently. "Hey … I think you might need an actual break."

"I might need one." She looks so sad at the prospect that he almost laughs. He shifts her against him instead and she curls into his body, her head pillowed on his shoulder now. He brushes errant long strands of hair away from his own face. She's still fragrant from the shower, warm and pliant from her nap. "But I don't _want_ one," she mumbles into his neck.

She draws back a little. "And, Derek – how am I supposed to get a break when we're basically living in a bed? A really big bed," she adds, her tone drifting toward dreamy again.

He laughs a little. "You might be in luck there, Addie." He picks up his blackberry from the bedside table. "Nancy emailed us. She … seems to know we're in town. Or that we were."

Addison looks confused, then claps a hand to her mouth. "Oh, that's right. I must have mentioned the Fourchette reservation." Addison winces. "And she mentioned something about Sunday dinner, if we had time."

"It's Monday."

"I know that." Addison considers the issue. "We could still see her. Since we're still in town."

"And tell her we're in town – why?"

"I don't know. We'll think of something."

Derek shakes his head, rubbing a hand through his hair. Addison is in charge of their social calendar. She manages their friends, she manages his sisters, and she manages all the reservations.

… which, admittedly, usually go off with far less trouble than this one.

(But less fun, too, come to think of it.)

"Derek?"

"I don't know, Addie. It might raise … questions."

"We're not criminals!"

They both pause, considering the relative truth of that statement.

"The point is, she's Nancy. She just wants to see us."

"Are you going to be okay?" he asks. "Don't you want to … rest?"

"I'll be fine," she assures him. "Nancy's been pregnant a dozen times, I'm sure she has a donut pillow she can lend me."

When he laughs, she throws the closest non-donut pillow at him. He catches it and throws it back.

"This isn't funny, Derek. What kind of impression am I going to make on the court if I can't even walk?"

"Maybe it'll help us look more sympathetic."

"I'll give you _sympathetic_ ," she mutters.

"You'll be fine by then, Addie."

"God, I hope so." She cracks her neck. "All of this is just … stressing me out."

He nods sympathetically.

"Derek …?"

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm massaging your shoulders," he says. "Or I'm trying to."

"Derek. How many more _closed_ _for business_ signs do I need to hang – on how many doors? I told you, I'm done for tonight."

"And I told you I understand. I'm just trying to massage your shoulders."

"Massage my shoulders," she repeats. "Oh, I remember that move."

She raises an eyebrow, but then she settles back and grants him access to her shoulders. "Medical school – our first big chem test and I was _so tense_ from all that studying, and you were just trying to help …"

Derek laughs a little as he rubs at a knot in her left shoulder.

"I can't believe you tried such a transparent move," she says.

"I mean, it worked," he reminds her. "Just like Mark said it would."

They both pause.

"Anyway." Derek clears his throat. "The point is … there are plenty of things we can do while you … recover."

"But I don't want to do plenty of things," Addison says. She twists around, his hands dropping from her shoulders. "I want to do _you._ "

"That's actually sort of sweet."

"Well, that's me … sweet." She leans into him and he wraps his arms around her. For a few moments they sit like that, as her relaxed body grows heavier against him.

"Let's go to dinner with Nancy and Eric," he suggests.

She sits up. "Really?"

"Really. I mean, it will give us something to do instead of moping, and it will keep us from making any … short-sighted decisions."

She considers this. "I guess you're right. Although if we're preventing _short-sighted decisions_ , we should probably avoid any restaurants with an accessible wine cellar."

"Good point." He pauses. "Or a covered garden."

"Yeah, that too." Addison picks up her blackberry and starts typing an email to Nancy. "Or single-stall bathrooms, come to think of it."

Derek wrinkles his nose. "And no coat checks."

"Circular booths are out."

"Private party rooms."

"Floor-length tablecloths."

Addison's fingers hover over the blackberry.

"You know what?" she says. "Maybe we should just go over to their place."

Derek considers this option. Nancy and Eric have five children, spanning a wide enough spectrum of ages that someone is always in need of a diaper change and someone else is always in need of a lesson on how to apply deodorant. Plus, it's his older sister, who used to dress him up in lacy costume dresses whenever she could and call him _Princess Dereka._

If anything is less sexy than that … he hasn't encountered it yet.

"That sounds perfect," he says. "Good idea, Addie."

She types furiously, sends, and the blackberry buzzes seconds later.

"Nancy says _that sounds perfect_ ," Addison smiles at her husband. "Great minds, I suppose. Oh, she wants to know if we're craving anything in particular."

"I know I am – but nothing that would be on a family dinner menu," Derek mutters.

Addison swats him with the closest pillow; he confiscates it and swats her gently in return with the same pillow.

All things considered, though … she can't actually disagree.

In fact, it's quite the understatement.

* * *

 _To be continued. Next time: dinner with big sis and her family. Can Addison and Derek keep it together before then? Can they keep their hands off each other long enough to heal and maybe, in that process, heal their marriage too? DRUM ROLL. See you next time. Review and tell me what you think of our favorite stranded, frustrated, Weiss-would-only-be-a-little-proud couple!_


	8. hey mister, she's my sister

**A/N: So I'm starting to think there's _ridiculous_ and then there's _winter when the addek muse hits ridiculous_. This story seems to flow the most when I'm the one traveling, so I shouldn't be that surprised. I hope you are as amused as I am by close to twenty thousand words of indulgent Addek Take Manhattan. I can't help it: I love Addek, and I love Nancy, and I love knowing that other people love both those things too. And thank you birdieq for my new favorite term, _Frisky Friday_. Please pester her to update _Life Ain't Always Beautiful._**

 **I hope you enjoy this long, long chapter. Happy Frisky Friday!**

* * *

 **Six Miles High, Part Eight  
** _ **Hey Mister ... She's My Sister**_

* * *

"You've been in a jail cell, Derek. Is this really so much worse?"

"The jail cell was bigger," Derek mutters.

"True," Addison says thoughtfully, then shakes her head. "You're being ridiculous."

"I just forgot how much I hate this thing," he says stiffly, wincing a little when he looks at it.

"Oh, come on, Derek. Jail cell aside, it's hardly the tightest space you've squeezed into this week."

"Very funny." He glares at her. "You're not the one who got stuck in it once with _two_ children in diapers."

"True." Addison tucks her hand through his arm. "But that was a long time ago."

Derek considers telling her that _a long time ago_ seems like a meaningless phrase these strange few days in Manhattan, but he focuses instead on the tiny old-fashioned elevator waiting for them in the lobby of the massive, inconsistently updated pre-war building Nancy calls home.

Addison smiles encouragingly at him as she braces herself to push the metal grate open. Her smile falters at the speed of her progress.

"A little help here?" she barks at Derek.

"Since you asked so nicely." He joins her and helps to push on the unforgiving metal grate; between the two of them, they apply enough force that the grate snaps open … and Addison nearly loses her footing.

Derek grabs her around the waist to steady her. She turns around in his arms looking pleased with herself.

Too pleased with herself.

"No," Derek says firmly before she can speak. "No. Addie, you know what we promised Weiss. And besides, Nancy's waiting for us."

"Fine," Addison grumps, attempting to stalk into the elevator – but it's so small that her long legs cross it in just one stalk-step. Derek joins her, wincing as together the two of them manage to yank the grate closed. Addison pulls at the lever for Nancy's floor while Derek casts nervous glances at the double doors that still haven't closed.

"Maybe we should walk up," he suggests.

"Fourteen floors?" Addison's eyes widen. "Which part of _sore_ didn't you understand?"

"I'm not asking you to walk up the stairs on your – "

The elevator doors choose that moment to close with a vigorous whoosh and they're shut in the small space with nothing but a tiny glass porthole as the craft starts moving.

Slowly.

"I think we could actually walk up faster," Derek mutters as the elevator heaves, slowly, up another floor.

"Honestly, Derek." Addison tosses her hair. "This elevator is a relic. Not everything has to be renovated."

"This elevator … is a deathtrap," Derek corrects her, a loud squeal from the cables drowning out her protest.

"You're the one who said we should go to Nancy's."

"Well, you're the one who – "

The elevator hurtles sideways, causing Derek to fall into Addison.

"Ow!"

"Sorry," he says sincerely, prying himself away from her quickly and then steadying her with both hands on her shoulders. "Did I hurt you?"

Even in the dim light, he can tell Addison is considering how much to milk this.

He's half annoyed, half relieved that she's all right.

"I'm okay," Addison says tremulously, in the purposefully brave tone of a woman who has just sawed off a limb to escape from a bear trap rather than suffered four or five seconds under the weight of her husband.

"What a relief. That was close." Derek is torn between humoring her and calling her on how dramatic she is; his internal battle is cancelled when the elevator heaves another floor, lurches again, and this time Addison is thrown into him.

"Sorry," she pants while he tries to extricate himself.

"It's okay."

It's difficult, though, the warm weight of her seems to be everywhere, their limbs tangled.

And it's distracting, because the sensation of heavy softness, the scent of her and the way her hair tickles his neck – it's too much for the small space.

He works his hands under her arms to shift her weight, grunting a little with the effort. Somehow, Addison manages to convey how offended she is without any words. He can't even see her in the dim elevator light.

Finally, he manages to ease her away from him and onto her own side – which is directly next to his side. Somehow, the elevator has gone from phone-booth-sized to pocket-sized.

Derek glances at his wife. She's staring straight ahead, smoothing her long hair, but he can tell from the sound of her breaths that the jostling elevator ride has affected her.

For some people, _affected_ might be neutral, or even charming.

But this is Addison.

And he is Derek.

And they're about to spend an evening with his sister.

So for them, _affected_ is nothing short of terrifying.

As if to underscore his nerves, the elevator slams to a shuddering halt.

They're here.

..

"Remember, don't say anything to Nancy about why we're still in the city," Addison hisses as they walk down the wide hallway.

"Really?" Derek doesn't try to rein in his sarcastic tone. "Because I was planning to tell my sister every detail."

"Very funny." Addison reaches out to swat him, but he captures her hand before she can make contact. "Look, I told her we're still here because we have to take care of some … house stuff."

"House stuff?"

"With the brownstone." Addison doesn't meet his eyes.

"Oh." Derek considers this. He hadn't really thought about _house stuff_. Addison usually handled those things when they lived in Manhattan and he supposes she must have been handling them during the transition to Seattle as well.

"House stuff," Addison repeats. "I figured Nancy would appreciate that explanation. You know she's always renovating one thing or another."

"True." Derek raps on the large door – everything in the building is large, a relic of a time when Manhattan real estate wasn't measured out by the quarter-inch – and it swings open while his fist is still raised.

"Derek! Addie!" Nancy's enthusiastic greeting echoes down the vast hall. She hugs them both before they can even cross the threshold.

"It's so good to see you," Addison tells her as the two women embrace.

Derek glances around the entryway to Nancy's oversized apartment. It looks – surprisingly put together, but knowing Nancy, some part of it is still undergoing work, one of their many renovation projects.

Derek and Addison were only halfway through medical school when Nancy and Eric first moved into a junior two in this upper west side building. It was the start of their marriage – and it was big for what they needed at the time, Derek recalls, his mother rather sniffy about the amount of space. But then they started having children.

A lot of children.

And two sizeable dogs.

And then they needed _more_ space.

Slowly, over the last decade and a half, his sister and brother-in-law have been buying up other apartments on the floor as residents move out – not, Nancy would say angrily, because of how loud their children and pets are, though privately Derek's not quite sure.

As a result, his sister's current apartment is a massive hodgepodge of space always undergoing some renovation project or another, its layers peeling away to reveal the history underneath and its décor ranging from updated to invention-of-electricity.

But it suits them, Nancy and Eric's five children always running in various directions, the apartment as boisterous and chaotic as they are.

"You look great," Addison is saying now, holding Nancy away at arms' length.

"So do you," Nancy grins, "but it hasn't been that long!"

"It feels long, though." Addison sounds – sad? Derek is a little confused, but then the two women are hugging again and he ducks his way carefully around them so the door can close.

… just in time, because in a flood of claws tapping the hardwood floors, two enthusiastic fur cannons shoot into Derek's legs.

"Down," Nancy says without much intensity, still preoccupied with Addison.

The dogs ignore her, two good-sized mutts with shaggy fur and the kind of muzzles that make it look as though they're smiling. Right now, they seem to be thoroughly enjoying trapping Derek against the wall with their floods of canine affection.

"Nancy …"

"Sorry." Nancy turns around. "Jack! Diane! Leave Derek alone," she scolds. " _Down_ , Jack."

When the dogs decline to obey, she calls instead for her children.

Addison is scratching one of the dogs behind the ears when Nancy's two oldest skid around the corner, a pair of tall, dark-haired teenagers. Their wary expressions change to welcoming surprise when they see the visitors.

"Aunt Addie!" Johanna throws her arms around her aunt. "You haven't been here in forever!"

Addison hugs her back warmly, then holds her away. "It's so good to see you, Jo! Did you get taller?" she asks.

"Probably." Johanna shoots her mother a dark look.

Nancy holds her hands in the air. "You know it's not my fault, honey."

"Yes it is, Mom. _You_ are the one who picked – "

"Never mind," Nancy says as Alice takes Johanna's spot for a hug from their aunt. "Girls … Uncle Derek is here too," she says pointedly.

A little offended by Nancy's reminder, Derek nonetheless greets both his nieces. Alice, the eldest, is taller than he is now, and Johanna is quickly catching up, already her mother's height. They've apparently grown just in the last six months, but Derek isn't exactly surprised as he watches the girls corral both dogs and lead them out the door for a walk.

Everything is oversized in Nancy's apartment, from the furniture … to its occupants.

Not because of Nancy.

Not exactly, despite Johanna's accusation.

"Derek! Addie!" A booming voice echoes down the hall.

… and the floor under his feet, unless it's his imagination, is shaking slightly.

..

"Eric!" Addison says with enthusiasm, her neck already aching a little bit from trying to look her brother-in-law in the eye.

His hug lifts her off her feet – not on purpose, unless he was intending to do the same to Derek, whose shoes scrape the wooden floor noisily, much to her amusement.

Derek is glaring at her when his brother-in-law sets him back on his feet.

"Sorry," Eric says amiably, smiling down at him. "Great to see you both," he adds.

It's impossible to be annoyed with Eric.

Not just because he could easily stamp them out like ants.

His genuinely cheerful manner is contagious, and even if his luxuriantly wavy hair has more grey in it now than it did when Addison first met him more than sixteen years ago, he somehow still seems youthful. In a family of tall people, Eric still towers over everyone, somehow three times as broad as Nancy while maintaining what Addison would call an _athletic physique_ and Derek would call _showing off._

It's not that Derek doesn't like his brother-in-law. Far from it. Eric was always kind, and inclusive, taking brotherly interest in Derek and dulling the blade of some of Nancy's sharper comments. His physical prowess came in handy shoveling snow on the Shepherd property and helping Carolyn with whatever house projects needed someone with extraordinary upper body strength.

And it's not Eric's fault that he's practically tall enough to scrape the ceiling and strong enough that he can still, the last time Derek checked, lift all five children at once.

The result, though – with the exception, at least the last time he saw them, of Nancy's lone son, who is more Shepherd than McGuff – the children are anything but small. In Derek's experience, it only takes half a glass of wine for Nancy to tell stories only Addison seems to appreciate about the size of her children's heads in comparison to the size of their … journey to life.

Then again, Addison was the one who delivered several of those twelve-pound babies and, after a bottle or so of wine, performed a variety of surgical tricks to keep everything where it needed to be.

Meanwhile, Nancy is beaming, looking from one of them to the other. "It's been _so_ long since we were all together," she says happily, Addison reaching out to squeeze her hand.

Derek lets his sister and brother-in-law lead them inside, take their lightweight jackets and fuss over them, only tuning back in at the sound of his name.

"Hm?" Derek turns his head.

"Not _Derek_." Addison pats his arm in conciliatory fashion. "I said NancyAn _dEric_."

"Oh."

At least DerekAndAddison never led to confusion.

… Well. Not name confusion, anyway.

Derek has almost forgotten what it's like to be with Nancy's family and turn his head needlessly multiple times an hour when some consonant elides with _Eric_ and he's convinced his own name is being called.

It's little things like this that make life easier in Seattle, without all the … confusion, and people, and history.

It's better that way.

That's probably why he feels a little sad now – missing the peace and quiet of Seattle.

..

There's music coming from somewhere, various sports equipment tossed down in the front hall, schoolbooks and medical journals competing for space on tables and shelves.

Addison takes a moment to just – drink in Nancy's apartment. It's wonderfully noisy and messy and _alive_ and even though she's threatened to withhold sex for a week for messes far less than this one in her own home, Nancy's home is different.

(Plus, Derek knows perfectly well she could never withhold sex for a week. At least he used to, anyway.)

She remembers every bit of it: the scratchy record player Nancy salvaged from the home where the Shepherd siblings grew up and Eric's handy brother hooked up to actual speakers, the well-worn baby grand piano that's never in tune and usually has an actual baby seated on the bench plunking at the keys, and the family pictures that line the walls.

Lots of family pictures.

Okay, Addison might not have remembered _quite_ how many family pictures Nancy has on display.

It's like … a museum.

A museum of Shepherd History, and either Nancy pulled out some good ones to try to make her reconciliation with Derek stick, or they've always been a featured exhibition.

Either way, she sees Derek's shoulders stiffen at the large family portrait from their wedding framed on the wall.

God, they're _young_ in it, Addison all ill-advised updo and poufy dress and Derek nervously handsome in his tux.

Then the real Derek is looking at her.

Looking – or maybe glaring, a little.

"Were we even old enough to get married?" she asks in a small voice, hoping to distract him.

"Maybe someone should have talked us out of it."

His tone isn't sharp, but his words cut her nonetheless.

"Your mother tried, actually," Addison says. "And if she couldn't do it, I don't know who could have. She hated me."

"She didn't hate you," Derek mutters. "She loves you."

Addison raises her eyebrows. "Okay … I'll let that one go."

"You? Let something go?"

"You know what, Derek – "

"Who wants a drink?" Nancy interrupts brightly, and it's hard to calculate which spouse answers faster.

..

It's a little easier to take this … Gallery of the Shepherds … with a scotch in his hand. But if Savvy and Weiss's place made them dip a toe into their shared history, Nancy's apartment is like being tossed into the deep end.

There they are: dancing at Nancy and Eric's wedding – an impossibly young Addison laughing in his arms, twirling in a low-backed sundress. It was outdoors, sunny springtime, a casual and fun affair that his mother tried to convince him to attend alone. _She's just a girlfriend, sweetheart, and weddings are for family._ Even then, did he know Addison would become his family?

He doesn't even have to turn his head to see the family gathered at Kathleen's beach house, two of his brothers-in-law standing sentry at the oversized grill while Addison – in a royal blue bathing suit he remembers achingly well – and his sisters wave from the pool.

Addison delivered Nancy's two youngest, and there she is in matching framed portraits: cradling newborn Claire, who is shrieking healthily from inside her pink swaddle, and then holding a tiny Eleanor sleeping peacefully while Claire scowls suspiciously at the intruder from Addison's other hip.

There's his niece Erin's graduation from high school, surrounded by cousins and aunts and uncles, including a beaming Addison – who helped Erin with her entrance essay, and was thrilled when she chose her Aunt Addie's alma mater. Derek has his arm slung around her shoulders, one of his nephews hanging onto her other hand adoringly. Derek looks pretty adoring too, actually, he can't help noticing now. He looks like a proud husband.

Wincing, he tries the next frame, but it's a Shepherd Christmas that could be any year of his adult life. He can identify the year only through his own form of family carbon-dating, scanning the volume of his own hair, the size of some of his older nieces and nephews, the number of stocking son the fireplace – but not much else has changed, over the years. Everyone is in matching Christmas pajamas – Liz's traditional gift – and sitting cross-legged around the tree. It's a slightly shaky portrait – despite Kathleen's constant hectoring, her husband never quite mastered the time-sensor tripod – but all the familiar faces still stand out in relief. Addison is smiling broadly – of course she is, she loves Christmas, leaning into him with her long legs crossed. She looks admittedly adorable in green flannel pajamas printed with gingerbread men. There's a big bow stuck on the side of her head that undoubtedly came off of an unwrapped present, and sure enough, one of their dark-haired nieces is grinning mischievously behind her aunt, little hands poised as if she's just affixed the hair ornament.

Addison wisely left him alone once Nancy gave them their drinks. He can't blame her, not when he snapped at her, but while she looked hurt she seemed … understanding.

He drains the tumbler of scotch.

"Let's hope Nancy doesn't whip out the wedding album, or you'll have to start drinking straight from the bottle."

He turns his head. So much for leaving him alone.

"You're not exactly taking it slow yourself," he points out, nodding toward her empty glass, which he doesn't need to examine to know it held a gin and tonic. He's known Addison a long time: she drinks straight gin when she's tired, gin and soda when she feels fat – her words, not his – and gin and tonic when she's upset.

"I have twice the tolerance for alcohol you do," she responds.

"Not everything is a competition, you know."

"It's not a competition, it's just a fact." She reaches for his empty tumbler. "You want another?"

"Not right now." He doesn't want her to win – so much for _not everything is a competition_ – but this is shaping up to be a long night, so he's aware he needs to moderate his consumption.

"Okay." She inches a little closer – her long hair brushes against him and she smells of the shampoo she brought with them, because of course Addison is going to trust her hair to hotel products, no matter how fancy the hotel. He feels himself relenting as she tucks a tentative hand through his arm.

They stand together for a moment, in front of the framed picture of their medical school graduation. Nancy and Eric are flanking them, a very small Alice sitting on Nancy's hip wearing a Columbia t-shirt and clapping tiny hands in celebratory fashion. Addison has a hand on her hat – he recalls it was an unusually windy day – her head tilted toward him, her smile huge and genuine.

"It feels like yesterday," Derek says.

"It seems like forever ago," Addison says at the same time.

He realizes they're both right, and he can tell from her expression she realizes it too.

When he turns to look at his wife, her eyes are hopeful, eager – and beautiful, but he steels himself against that. She's so sentimental, so fond of their shared history … when she was the one who sacrificed all of it for one ill-advised night with his best friend.

He opens his mouth to say something – he's not sure what, but he's fairly certain it won't be very nice – and then he says nothing because she's leaned in and kissed him.

It's soft and gentle but it's not brief.

"What was that for?" he asks when she draws back.

"Nothing." She shrugs a little. "I just felt like it. Is that okay?"

He brushes a strand of her long hair back with his free hand, automatically. She doesn't look so different from the girl in the graduation photo. "It's okay," he says.

She gives him a tentative smile. "Do you, um, do you want to go help Nancy in the kitchen?"

..

Despite two high-flying medical careers – Eric, when he's not lifting or fathering hordes of children, nicely fulfills the stereotype as head of orthopedic surgery at University West – Nancy has managed to recreate an upgraded, yet equally chaotic, version of weeknight dinner at their own home growing up.

There are numerous pots boiling on the stove with enough food to nourish an entire neighborhood, children running in and out of various rooms – Derek counts seven, so presumably some of the kids have friends over, although he wouldn't be that surprised if they've just started multiplying.

It's much the same as he remembers Nancy's apartment from what used to be their frequent visits.

Nancy's youngest toddles in just after they do, with a head of messy dark curls and enormous blue eyes. Despite being the height of a kindergarteners, she's … Derek tries to calculate.

"Three!" Addison has scooped her up. "Someone had a birthday last month."

"Me!" Ellie beams. "I did!"

"You certainly did." Addison kisses her. "I'm so sorry we missed it, sweetheart."

Nancy smiles warmly. "We understand. And Ellie loved your gift, didn't you?"

Ellie, who is busy playing with Addison's necklace while perched on her aunt's hip, nods obediently.

"Oh, I'm so glad," Addison says. "We hoped she would. And that thank-you note was so cute."

"Wasn't it? Claire helped."

Derek is looking from his wife to his sister. All of this is news to him, although _thank-you note_ is ringing a bell, somewhat. Did Addison show him something Nancy had sent? Did he notice it?

As for the gift, he has no idea what they sent Ellie for her birthday. It could have been a teddy bear or a sports car for all he knows, but Addison is notoriously gifted at the art of gifting, so he's not surprised that whatever it was turned out perfectly.

Ellie is beaming at her aunt, one pudgy little hand on either side of her face now.

"I'm _big_ ," she whispers proudly.

"You sure are." Addison kisses her rosy cheek again, unable to resist the adorable child she delivered.

"She is," Nancy confirms, brushing her hands off on her apron. "And I am so glad."

At Derek's quizzical look, she raises an eyebrow. "I have no children in diapers now," Nancy says reverentially. "None. Can you believe it?"

"No," Derek says honestly. But that be because Ellie is giving her mother what can only be described as _side eye_.

"She was ready," Nancy says, sounding a bit defensive. "And, well, she grew out of the biggest size of regular diapers."

"Regular?" Derek gives Addison an uncomfortable glance.

"I mean, you can buy them bigger, but there's something about the brand _No Judgment_ that made me think it was time to train her."

"They should change that name," Addison muses, though she seems distracted with Ellie, who is still perched on her hip. The two of them are carrying on a conversation Derek can't quite hear.

"Right? I wrote to the company," Nancy says as two little girls run into the oversized kitchen, one a head taller than the other, seeking cookies and settling for carrots with the promise of dinner soon. Nancy watches them leave fondly.

"Who's the extra?" Derek asks.

"Claire's friend from school. We're watching her."

Derek is unsurprised – Nancy's home has always been overrun with children of various ages.

The good thing is, with so many children around, and Nancy wearing a gingham apron over the outfit she must have worn to work, which Addison exclaimed over – pretty much the same gingham Derek remembers his mother wearing – at least there's no danger of their breaking their promise to Weiss.

..

Nancy channels their mother once again by screaming _Dinner!_ at increasingly voluble levels until everyone settles at the huge, scarred wooden table like it's old times.

Like Addison and Derek never left New York.

How many times did they cross the park to eat dinner with Nancy and her family? When the weather was nice, on rare days off, they'd walk, holding hands and enjoying each other's company, stopping to steal kisses under the canopy of old-growth trees. On busier nights they'd zip through in yellow cabs, making short work of the green carpet dividing their two homes.

Nancy's apartment was always warm and homey, big and growing bigger every year just as her family did. Somehow, despite running a busy practice, she always seemed to have something in the oven and at least three things on the stove. And four or five arms, settling children and basting turkey and stirring stews all at the same time. Instructions, warnings, drying tears, and laughing.

Always laughing.

"Derek?" Addison's hand covers his on the table. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he tells her quickly.

..

Addison is pretty sure she doesn't exhale until she's helped Nancy – along with her nieces and nephews – to carry every dinner dish into the kitchen.

When the children disperse, she sighs audibly.

She's glad to be here, it's just –

Well.

Nancy's always been big on pictures. On memories. And Addison doesn't really disagree.

It's just that they seemed a little more like land mines, tonight.

She stands at the sink for a moment, gathering herself.

Nancy drapes an arm over her shoulders. "It's good seeing the two of you together, Addie."

"Yeah." She looks down at the piles of dishes, her throat feeling a little thick.

"Things must be going pretty well – I mean, I saw you wincing when you sat down – "

"Nancy!" Addison covers her mouth with her hands, turning around.

"Don't worry, some things are only visible to the _very_ practiced eye." Nancy's very practiced eyes are gleaming wickedly. "So from OB-GYN to another, it seems like you're having a pretty good weekend?"

" … something like that." Addison smiles weakly.

"Good." Nancy gives her a quick squeeze. "I'm guessing there's only one thing that can improve it."

 _Going back in time to keep me from sleeping with Mark, and then magically healing my –_

"Cake!" Nancy exclaims happily.

Okay, not a bad runner-up, come to think of it.

..

The assembled Shepherd-McGuffs sing loudly and lustily around Derek's chair as he looks up at them, a little embarrassed.

 _Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Uncle Derek …_

Over their cheerful singing, Nancy imposes the lyrics she's preferred for as long as Derek can remember.

"… you look like a monkey, and you smell like one too," she finishes with gusto and not a little vibrato.

"Thanks," Derek says, shaking his head at her but smiling genuinely at his nieces and nephew.

"Why should I break my thirty-nine year streak?" Nancy asks.

Derek swallows his answer, knowing the children are listening.

His sister divvies up cake expertly and efficiently, and the children gobble it up, offer a few more birthday wishes in Derek's direction, and take off – with their plates, which they carry to the kitchen.

Derek takes a bite of the cake, more to be polite than anything else.

"How was your birthday?" Nancy asks. "The actual one, I mean."

"Well, we were on a plane," Addison begins.

Derek coughs loudly; Addison whacks his back until he glares at her.

"My birthday was fine," he says tightly.

Nancy looks from one of them to the other. "How was your birthday _dinner_?" she specifies. "That must have been some restaurant to be worth the trip."

Now it's Addison's turn to cough. Derek sets a glass of water in front of her.

"This cake is delicious," Addison says when she's cleared her throat and sipped some water.

"You've barely touched it."

"Well, you know, I have to watch my weight."

"Since when?" Nancy asks.

Derek avoids his wife's gaze; truthfully, she should probably be carb-loading, considering how much energy they've been expending on … cardio.

"Ask Derek." Addison raises her eyebrows. "He acted like he was winded when I fell into him in the elevator. Apparently I need to cut back."

"Really, Derek," Nancy says disapprovingly.

"I didn't do anything!" He glares from one woman to the other. "Ganging up on me as usual," he mutters.

"Only because we love you, Derek." Nancy pats his arm. "Anyway, we've all been thrown around in that elevator."

Nancy looks from one of them to the other again. "Addie said you're staying longer to deal with some house stuff."

"Right." Derek takes a sip of his drink. "That's what she said."

"Have you been back to the brownstone yet?" Nancy asks.

"No," Derek says shortly.

"We … hired someone to rent it out," Addison says. "We have to deal with some – things with the company."

Derek looks up at her; this is news to him.

"When did you do that?" he asks.

"When I moved to Seattle permanently," Addison says. "They're, uh, getting it ready now, if I'm remembering their last email right."

Renting out the brownstone.

Another family living in it.

Not that he cares; he never wants to see that place again. From the way Addison is blushing right now, she's aware.

Avoiding his sister's gaze, Derek slices through the middle of his piece of cake. He has no interest in eating it, but he bisects it – twice – to divert his attention.

"Are you looking for a razor in that cake?" Nancy asks finally.

Derek glances at her, confused.

"I mean, I wanted to put one in there. I really did." Nancy says, looking like she's trying not to laugh. "It would have been _so great._ But I couldn't, with all the children around."

Addison and Derek look across the table.

No one else is sitting with them.

"There _were_ children here," Nancy says, her mouth twitching again. "Then again, I know that isn't necessarily a deterrent for the two of you."

"All right, that's enough." Derek pushes his chair back and glares at his sister. " _What_ exactly are you getting at, Nancy?"

Then he sees that Addison is covering her face with her hands, looking – embarrassed. Far more embarrassed than she did when they were caught on the ferry and thrown in –

"You _know_ ," Derek realizes, looking at Nancy, and then turning on Addison. "You told her?" he shakes his head. Nancy and Addison have always been thick as thieves, from the first time he brought her home to meet his family, but this is going too far. "You are unbelievable," he says, glaring at his wife. "We _agreed._ "

"I didn't tell her." Addison's tone is indignant. "But thanks for assuming I did."

"It wouldn't be the first agreement you broke."

Addison's cheeks are coloring. "I didn't tell her, Derek!"

"How else would she know?"

"Why don't you ask _her_?" Addison hisses. "Instead of blaming me?"

"Fine, I'll ask her."

Nancy is still sitting at the table with them, her head swinging from one to the other as they bicker.

"Good." Addison is the one glaring now. "Ask her, and then you can apologize to me."

"I'm going to ask her, but don't hold your breath for an apology."

"Why don't you ask her first, and then – "

"Oh, for god's sake!" Nancy finally interrupts. " _Her_ is sitting right here, and since you can't stop arguing long enough to ask me, I'll just tell you."

"Fine," Derek snaps.

"Fine," Addison adds, with another long swallow of wine.

Nancy takes a deep breath. "You remember my friend Christie – we were college roommates?"

"No," Derek says.

"Yes," Addison says at the same time. "She had an anterior placenta, right? And blonde hair."

"Yes, that's her," Nancy beams while Derek is still shaking his head. Only his wife would recall the position of someone's placenta before her hair color.

"How's she doing?" Addison asks warmly. "Last time you and I talked, her follicle count had lowered, but she was getting ready to do PIO."

"It's not that I'm not interested in Chrissy's reproductive system," Derek interrupts loudly, "but can you get to the point?"

" _Christie_ ," Nancy corrects, her tone frosty. "Not Chrissy. Anyway, Christie's a deputy public defender, as you know."

Addison is nodding as if she knows this. She actually _seems_ to know it. And then her eyes widen. "Christie was in – in the lockup? On Saturday?"

"No," Nancy says quickly. "She's too senior for that these days, but apparently her intern came back to the office today after visiting with a client who _was_ at a precinct downtown and said he was full of stories of a mysterious brain surgeon who was checking all the guys in the cell for cancerous moles."

Addison coughs around a mouthful of wine and pats her lips furiously with her napkin. Derek suddenly seems very interested in the pattern on the tablecloth.

"But wait … how did you know it was Derek?" Addison persists. "There must be other brain surgeons out there who would … check their cellmates for moles." She turns to Derek. "Really? Moles?"

"I took an oath," Derek says stubbornly. "I'm not going to turn down people in need of – wait, why, what were you doing in your cell that was so much more appropriate, Addie?"

"Mostly just praying that Miss Krystal's tube top wouldn't snap again," Addison retorts. Then she turns to Nancy. "You knew it was Derek just from _brain surgeon_?"

"And I already knew you were in New York that weekend," Nancy says slowly.

Addison raises an eyebrow.

"Fine, the intern might also have mentioned that the client said the mysterious brain surgeon was in lockup for public indecency with a … "

"Spit it out," Derek orders when Nancy hesitates.

" … with a red-headed she-devil," Nancy admits, turning an apologetic gaze to Addison.

"A red-headed she-devil?" Addison repeats, her cheeks flushing. "How _dare_ he? That is incredibly offensive. And sexist. And totally untrue, and obviously this … _client_ has no idea what he's talking about."

"He also said you were hot," Nancy adds.

" … oh." Addison looks slightly mollified now, and Derek doesn't bother to hide his eye roll, shifting in his seat seconds too late to avoid her kick under the table.

"Anyway." Nancy sits up in her seat. "You can probably understand why I knew it was the two of you."

"Because we were in New York this weekend and … I'm a brain surgeon … and Addison has red hair?" Derek asks weakly.

"Oh, sure." Nancy's tone is cheerful. "That, and the public indecency." She gives her brother and sister-in-law a fond look. "I guess the two of you haven't changed much."

"Excuse me." Derek glares. "Those charges are trumped up. We weren't … publicly indecent."

"Our clothes were on," Addison bleats, as if she's talking to Weiss all over again, and now Derek turns his glare on her.

"I'm sure they were," Nancy says soothingly. "It's just, you're talking to the person who walked in on you in the boathouse when you were still in medical school."

Addison's cheeks turn a little pinker. "We were so young then, Nance," she protests. "Practically babies."

"True." Nancy raises an eyebrow. "And that excuse would be reasonably convincing, if I hadn't walked in on you in another boathouse … what was it, three years ago? When you were … thirty-six?"

"Two years ago," Addison admits. "But – it was a really nice boathouse."

" _Was_ ," Nancy repeats, darkly. "It _was_ a really nice boathouse."

"We're sorry about that," Addison assures her. "Didn't we pay to replace those cushions? And the kayak? And the beach glass? And didn't we buy the extra-strength lock you requested?"

"Yes," Nancy says. "Financially … you definitely made it right."

Derek sighs. "Nancy, I'm your brother. Do we really need to talk about this?"

"I know you're my brother, Derek. I wish you had kept that in mind that day at the boathouse. Or rather, those _days_ at the boathouse _s_ , plural."

The tips of Derek's ears are starting to turn red. "Nancy …"

"Or that winter we rented the place in the mountains, do you remember?" Nancy asks brightly.

Addison is studiously avoiding Derek's gaze.

"The one with the outdoor Jacuzzi," Nancy prompts.

Neither Addison nor Derek responds.

"And the really big – "

"Yes, Nancy, we remember!" Derek snaps. "Did you have a point?"

"I was answering _your_ question," she reminds him. "Or are you still wondering why brain surgeon plus red-headed she-devil plus public indecency would bring me straight to the two of you?"

For a moment, no one speaks.

Then Addison turns to Derek. "See? It wasn't my fault that Nancy found out!" she announces triumphantly.

"Well, it was your fault there was something for her to find out," Derek mutters.

"Really. My fault." Addison raises an eyebrow. "Because I was all alone on that ferry."

"You were on a ferry?" Nancy asks with interest.

They both ignore her.

"If you hadn't made us ride the ferry, this never would have happened," Derek says resolutely.

"You're the one who wore the blue shirt," Addison snaps.

"You _bought_ me the blue shirt!"

"Well, I didn't put it on you!"

"No. You took it off me." Derek glares at her.

"Not on the ferry," Addison says hastily, looking at Nancy.

"What a relief." Nancy rolls her eyes, highlighting her resemblance to her brother.

"My point," Addison says with dignity, "is that I didn't tell you, Nancy, and Derek – you accused me of telling her. So I think you owe me an apology."

"You think I owe you an apology," Derek repeats dubiously. " _That's_ your takeaway from this?"

"In fact," Addison continues as if he hasn't spoken, "this is actually your fault."

"My fault."

She nods decisively. "It's your fault Nancy found out."

"How do you figure that?"

"Because if you hadn't felt the need to tell your … cellmates that you're a brain surgeon, Christie might not have made the connection!" Addison's gaze is nothing short of triumphant.

Derek frowns at her. "What was I supposed to tell them?"

"I don't know, Derek, how about something non-identifiable?" She rolls her eyes. "This would never happen to James Bond."

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not James Bond."

"Not as sorry as I am," she mutters, taking a long swallow of wine.

"If you're finished," Nancy says politely. "How about some more cake?"

..

"Derek, it's _fine_ ," Nancy assures him once Addison has excused herself.

"Is it?" Derek asks, raising an eyebrow at Nancy. "We were arrested for public indecency and now we're stuck in Manhattan for another … eight days. And to make it worse, now my sister knows about it."

"I'm not judging," Nancy assures him.

"You're not," Derek repeats doubtfully.

"Of course not! You're my little brother. Did I judge you when you used to dress up in – "

"That was _you_ who dressed me up," Derek interrupts hastily.

"You did look great in a tiara … Princess Dereka."

"Thank you, for that." Derek sighs, shaking his head. "Look, can you at least – not tell anyone?"

"Of course." Nancy rests a hand on his arm, her smile warm. "I won't tell anyone else."

"Thank you." Derek says it sincerely this time. "I really appreciate – " He stops talking. "What do you mean, _anyone_ _else_?"

"Anyone other than Eric," Nancy says. "He's my husband!" she adds when Derek frowns.

"Fine. Just Eric, though?"

"Well, and Kathleen. But I tell her everything, so that doesn't count."

Derek massages his temples. "Nancy – at least promise me you didn't tell Mom."

"Of course not." Nancy looks at him like he's the crazy one. "Besides, she'd probably just blame Addie."

"She wouldn't be wrong!"

"Really?" Nancy leans back against the kitchen island, folding her arms. "It seems like the two of you got yourselves into this together."

Derek doesn't respond.

"Look, Derek. Eric and I, we've been married … sixteen years now. Not to mention the five years we were together before that. When you're married, you get into things ... together."

He nods, still hoping she'll drop the issue.

"You're working on it though, right?" Nancy's tone is hopeful. "You and Addie. You're trying to fix things."

"I don't want to talk about my marriage with you, Nancy."

"Fine." Nancy looks a little hurt.

"Just – please don't tell anyone about our – legal issue," he says.

"Fine," she repeats. "But for the record, Derek … I think it's kind of sweet."

"Sweet," Derek repeats incredulously.

"Sure. I mean you run off to Seattle and no one hears from you again, and then Addie runs off to join you and you two basically disappear off the ends of the earth, and we're imagining all the worst things and then here you are back in New York … up to your old tricks, like you never left."

Derek doesn't respond.

"You're fixing things," Nancy says, sounding satisfied.

Derek sets down his drink. "Is that what we're doing?"

"Aren't you?" Nancy studies his face. "You're working it out. And you're together."

They're together enough to be cited in a police report for it, anyway.

"Nancy … "

"Derek, I'm not trying to pry, really."

He massages the bridge of his nose. "We're just – these things take time."

"That's why I was so happy with Christie's news. Because Addie said, before she left for Seattle, that you were seeing someone there."

Derek chokes on his drink.

"Wait, what?" he asks once he can speak again. "You were talking to Addison before she came to Seattle?"

"Of course." Nancy looks confused. "Addie and I talk all the time."

"But … that was before."

"She's my sister-in-law," Nancy says.

"I'm your brother," he reminds her.

"And you weren't here, Derek."

"I didn't stick around after I caught them, you mean." He glares at his sister. "And that makes _me_ the bad guy."

"It's not about who's the bad guy, Derek. It's just – you weren't here before then, either."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means – you were busy. You were always working."

"I have a time-consuming job, Nancy. So does Addison. So do you!"

"I know that." Nancy sighs, leaning back in her chair. "You really want to get into this now?"

"You're the one who brought it up."

"I know." Nancy tilts her head, studying his face. "You and Addie, you're surgeons, you're crazy busy, I get it. But she always made time for – okay, look." She pauses. "How far did Johanna get in the state swim championships last year?"

"I don't know." Derek is confused. Nancy's kids are always doing some sport or another. "Uh … semi-finals?" he guesses.

"Not even close. Placed out in the pre- _pre -_ rounds. She's terrible."

"Okay. What's your point?"

"And Christian," Nancy continues, ignoring his question for one of her own, "what position does he play in football?"

"Half-back?" Derek guesses.

"Nope."

"Fullback?"

"Nope."

"Nancy, come on."

"No position," she says levelly. "Christian plays soccer, not football."

"What is that supposed to prove?" Derek shakes his head with annoyance.

Nancy just continues, undeterred.

"Who did Alice play in _Rent_?" she asks.

"Another trick question!" he says triumphantly, pleased to have the correct answer at last. "She's too young to be in _Rent._ "

"No … that one was a real question. She played Maureen."

"In _Rent._ Really?" Derek frowns. "Isn't that a … weighty choice for a middle school play?"

"They're in a progressive school," Nancy says with dignity, "and she's in tenth grade, Derek, not middle school! Now do you see what I mean?"

Derek glares at the tablecloth instead of answering.

He hears rather than sees Nancy push her chair back.

"We missed you, Derek," she says gently, resting a hand on his shoulder for a moment. "That's all I'm saying."

..

He sits alone at the table for a few minutes, stewing, before moving to the couch.

For more stewing.

Everyone leaves him alone, a miracle in this house and evidence that everyone here, too, is on Addison's side.

He's busy feeling sorry for himself when Nancy's youngest skips into the room.

"Hi," Ellie says cheerfully. She's wearing pajamas printed with turtles look a little too big for her, holding up a book and smiling at him. "Wanna read to me?"

At least someone in this house likes him, he thinks grumpily as his small niece climbs onto his lap.

It's a battered copy of _The Cat in the Hat_ that probably belonged to Alice, if not Nancy herself, first. There are a few torn pages suggesting Amy once got her hands on it as well.

If there's a way to stay grumpy while reading Dr. Seuss, Derek hasn't discovered it.

Ellie is laughing and beaming up at him as he supplies the different voices he's perfected for his nieces and nephews over the years.

"Read it again!" she cries happily when he finishes, cuddling into him.

"Oh, if you insist." He tugs lightly on one of her dark curls and she giggles.

The second time, he finds himself getting into the story too. Sally and her brother are just trying to go about their lives while the Cat makes things increasingly more chaotic for them.

He's never empathized more.

" _I know it is wet and the sun is not sunny,_ " he reads, " _but we can have lots of good fun that is funny."_

"That's funny," Eleanor giggles. "You're funny."

She smiling up at him, and sure, Dr. Seuss may be the funny one – but Dr. Shepherd is willing to take the credit, just tonight.

"More!" she demands, tapping the book with one little finger.

..

In open kitchen archway, too quietly to be seen, Addison is watching her husband read to their niece: two dark heads bent together, laughing over the funny words and pictures. Ellie is cuddled trustingly on Derek's lap, and when she's not pointing at illustrations or turning pages, she grips one of her uncle's much bigger hands with her tiny one.

Addison has to swallow hard.

"They're sweet together, aren't they?" Nancy asks softly.

Surprised, Addison turns around – she didn't hear her sister-in-law approaching. Her throat is too thick to do anything but nod.

Nancy seems to understand, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Together, they watch as Derek makes his nieces laugh with his dramatic picture book skills.

Ellie's bell-like laugh carries across the living room, taking Addison's breath away.

"This is what I wanted," she whispers to Nancy, feeling her heart swell.

"I know." Nancy hugs her fully this time. "I know you did, Addie. And I know … that he wanted it too."

"I told him I wasn't ready." She brushes impatiently at her eyes. This isn't the time for this conversation, and yet … "I was scared," she admits to Nancy. "And now I'm afraid … I don't think I'm ever going to get the chance again."

"Addie, you have the chance right now," Nancy murmurs.

Addison shakes her head. "Things aren't easy right now, Nance. Derek isn't exactly thrilled with me … wincing aside."

"He knows you're sorry?" Nancy asks tentatively.

"I think so."

"Then maybe all you need to do is – "

But Addison doesn't find out what she needs to do, because a yelp from the living room interrupts her conversation with Nancy.

By the time Addison and Nancy get to their side, Ellie is standing in front of Derek with her eyes wide.

Addison looks down at the large wet spot on Derek's pants, where Ellie was sitting.

"Ooh, sorry about that," Nancy says, her tone casual. "Toilet training is a learning curve."

"Sorry." Ellie gazes sadly at her uncle.

"It's okay," Derek says.

"It's just an accident," Nancy assures her. "And Uncle Derek's pants are washable."

Ellie looks hopeful. "More book?" she asks.

"Maybe once you're all cleaned up." Nancy grabs her wriggling toddler before she can escape, then calls for her husband.

She passes Ellie to her father, who looks at Derek's wet pants apologetically.

"Eric, honey, you have something Derek can wear, don't you?" Nancy asks.

"Sure. Derek, help yourself to anything you find in the bedroom. My closet's on the left."

..

Derek frowns into the mirror, gripping the waistband of yet another oversized pair of pants

Eric has a good six inches and probably seventy-five pounds on him, and despite his brother-in-law's indefatigable good cheer, _help yourself to anything you find_ has resulted in anything that he can keep around his waist.

When a pair of rugby sweats slide down to his ankles despite being rolled three times at his middle, he despairs of finding anything.

He's about to give up when he finally finds a pair of sweatpants that stay up – they're lilac, which isn't exactly his color, but they end just above his ankles and they don't turn him into a flasher, so he's satisfied.

… until he gets back to the living room.

"Derek, why are you wearing my sweatpants?" Nancy asks.

His cheeks flush. "I found them on Eric's side of the room," he says defensively.

Nancy raises an eyebrow. "Do you really want me to get into that?"

"No," he says quickly. "But they're – they fit fine."

" _I_ roll over the waistband," Nancy says; it's apparently her turn to flush.

"So how was I supposed to know they're yours?"

"Well, they do say _Juicy_ on the … back," Nancy says, gesturing.

"They do?"

Addison is laughing, covering her mouth with her hand, and he glares at her, still trying to twist around to see what they mean. All he can make out is a little swirl of silver.

"How am I supposed to know what it says? I can't see my own … back," he scowls.

"Derek, it's fine," Nancy says soothingly. "No one will notice."

Just then Ellie appears in dry pajamas, beaming, holding her father's hand. She points to Derek with a big grin. "Mama's pants!" she says happily.

"Addison …" Derek mutters as Nancy shoos Eric and Eleanor out of the living room.

"Derek, it's fine."

"A toddler knows I'm wearing my sister's pants."

"True, but remember those red corduroy pants you had when you were little, with the denim hearts on the knees?"

"I try not to," he says with dignity.

Addison actually looks _nostalgic_. She's always getting all … gooey and girly over pictures of him as a little boy. "Well, those were Nancy's, weren't they?" she prods.

"Yes," he admits, "and Kathy's … and Lizzie's before that. But hand-me-downs are different."

"Why?"

"Because they are," he says impatiently. Addison's mouth is twitching and he glares at her. "I'm glad this amuses you so much."

"Derek, I'm sorry, but you can't blame this one on me. You're the one who picked out the pants," she says.

But apparently his misery gets to her, because she reaches up a hand to touch his face. "Honey, it's really not a big deal."

He doesn't respond.

"Look, do you want me to put on something embarrassing too?" she asks gently. "Would that make you feel better?"

"Actually … I think it would."

..

Addison's offer turns out to be more complicated than they realized.

"It's not her fault that she looks good in everything," Nancy says when Derek gets annoyed that the fifth outfit she tries on – an animal print bridesmaid dress Nancy wore in 1993 – makes her look glamorously vintage rather than comical.

"No one looks good in everything," Derek scowls, but some of the sting comes out of his words when he turns away in annoyance and they're reminded of the silver-script _Juicy_ printed across his lilac-covered behind.

"Aunt Addie does," Alice says. She's been helping, supplying her field hockey uniform – but it looked perfectly fine, and when Addison murmured something in his ear about boarding school, he realized it would be a bad idea.

Alice, ever the helpful eldest, stuck around the bedroom to help critique, though – particularly pleased when Nancy's colorful aerobics gear that hadn't been aired in ten years came out to greet them.

"Thank you, honey," Addison says to her niece, "but Uncle Derek's right. No one looks good in everything. We just haven't found the right … thing yet."

Derek tries his hardest to suppress an eye roll at his wife's feigned modesty. He reminds himself to tease her about it later.

… except _tease_ and _later_ both remind him of things he shouldn't be thinking about.

"I've got it!"

They all turn to Alice, who's beaming. "My costume!" she says. "From the play! Remember, the really squeaky one that everybody – "

"Perfect." Nancy nods decisively. "Alice, take Aunt Addie to your room and help her put on the … costume."

..

It's a while before Addison and Alice emerge from her room, but when they do, the reason for the time it took becomes clear to everyone present.

"Don't you dare laugh," Addison says to Derek immediately through gritted teeth, her cheeks flushed pink.

 _Laugh_ wasn't his first instinct.

But okay.

Because Addison is glaring at him from within shiny, head-to-toe black leather.

Tight leather.

 _Very_ tight leather.

Skintight pants cover her long legs, and on top – he looks away quickly, then looks back: a – shirt, no, a tank top, no – something else entirely. It's got thin straps with silver studs on it and a silver zipper in the middle of it – presumably the way it got on, although it looks as if it's been painted. To call it tight would be an understatement – it looks rather like a corset.

"Are you happy now?" she demands. "Leather pants?"

"They're pleather, actually," Alice says brightly. "'Cause Maureen's a vegetarian. But they look like leather, don't they?" She gazes at the costume fondly.

Nancy looks at Derek, who looks at Eric, who looks at Alice, who looks at Christian, who looks at Johanna.

Then they all look at Addison.

"I can barely breathe in this outfit," Addison says darkly. She turns, with some effort, to Derek. "Are you satisfied?"

Oh, he's pretty sure she doesn't want the answer to that question.

"I'm going to suffocate in these pants," Addison moans before he can respond.

Derek rolls his eyes at her typical display of melodrama.

"Do you breathe with your legs?" he asks.

"I don't know, _Juicy_ , do you see with your eyes?" she snaps in return.

"Look, you're the one who decided to dress up like a … vegan streetwalker … "

"What's a streetwalker?" asks Johanna, who must be around eleven by now.

Derek winces, having forgotten about their audience.

"Never mind," Nancy says, glaring at Derek.

"Is it like a prostitute?" Johanna asks with interest.

Derek hides his smirk.

Addison opens her mouth for a retort, then closes it again. " _Never mind_ ," she says with dignity, repeating Nancy's words.

Then there's a loud, squeaking sound as Addison tries to lower herself onto the couch.

And fails.

She stays halfway down with slightly bent knees and a look of extreme frustration before Nancy and Alice rush in to each take one of her arms and basically – tip her over onto the couch.

Supine, her long red hair a pop of color across white skin and black leather – or rather pleather – Addison exhales with exaggerated resignation.

"Nancy … how long did you say it would take for Derek's jeans to be washed?"

..

A long time, apparently.

Long enough for Ellie, Claire, and the spare to go to bed and the older children to retire to their rooms while Nancy and Eric finish the kitchen clean up and Addison offers to help, but can't get enough momentum in the pleather pants to get off the couch.

Derek stands over her for a moment in the living room, amused at how much his wife currently resembles a bug on its back.

Well, a bug on its back if it were dressed up as … a vegan streetwalker.

Then he feels a little guilty. It was kind of her, wasn't it, to offer to dress in her own embarrassing outfit? The next time he looks at her, it's with reluctant fondness, even though her chest is still visibly flushed with annoyance at him.

"Addie …"

Then he stops feeling guilty, because she's managed to swivel enough to kick him with one pointy-toed heel.

"Hey!" He catches her foot. "Nancy's sweats don't have a lot of protection, so if you could avoid gelding me, I'd really appreciate it."

"It's not like you're going to be using it tonight," Addison reminds him darkly. She wriggles the lower half of her leg faintly, which seems to take effort in the pants. "Let go of my foot."

"Are you going to kick me again?"

"Truthfully?" Addison looks up at him, her eyes huge and innocent. "I'm going to try," she says.

"I figured." Derek releases her foot anyway, taking a long step back to get out of striking range. "I'm going to go help Nancy and Eric while you … cool off."

"Very funny." Addison seems to be trying to sit up, but fails again. The effort doesn't result in much progress, but straining her torso does push her breasts higher in the ridiculous pleather corset top.

"You know," he says, his eyes skimming over her, "that outfit really isn't so bad."

"Enjoy it," Addison snaps, "because you're never seeing me naked again."

"That'll be the day."

"Are you calling me easy?" she asks, outraged.

"I don't know, Addie, were you recently arrested for public sex?"

"Innocent until proven guilty," she says with cold dignity. "I'm still an American."

"And I'm still – "

"Oh, just shut up and help me sit up," she interrupts.

He considers leaving her there – maybe it would help her be a little nicer to him – but he takes pity on her in the end and hoists her into a sitting position, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the shiny pleather.

She sits stiffly and he's fairly certain she's not going to be able to get up on her own, but she seems satisfied.

"I'm going to go help Nancy and Eric," he says.

"You do that." She pauses. "Derek, wait."

"What is it?"

"Can you pass me my drink?"

He reaches for her glass.

"On second thought – can you pass me the bottle?"

..

Nancy and Eric are standing at the sink when he enters the kitchen, their heads close together – or as close as anyone's head can get to Eric's sky-high one.

They part after exchanging a spousal look Derek can't read, and Eric heads out of the room.

"Everything okay?"

Nancy nods, leaning back against the counter. "Chris is … having a hard time."

"What's wrong with him?" Derek asks nervously.

"Nothing. I mean, he's in eighth grade."

Derek nods.

"It's a tough age. He's starting high school next year. I was actually – hoping you could talk to him."

"Me?" Derek is puzzled. "Don't you think he'd rather talk to Eric?"

"Believe me, Eric's tried. You know Christian has always looked up to you," she reminds Derek, who is touched in spite of himself. "I know you have your own stuff to deal with it, but it would really mean a lot if you could – "

"Of course I'll talk to him." Derek cuts his sister off before she can get any more … emotional and girly.

"Thank you." Nancy gives him a quick hug. "Chris's room is at the end of the hall – I know, I know, you remember. Just, uh, make sure to knock first.

..

Derek has always felt particularly close to Christian. He's the lone boy in his family with four sisters – and Derek knows exactly how that feels.

He knocks on his nephew's door with some combination of confidence and nerves.

"My mom asked you to talk to me, didn't she," Chris says glumly without looking up from his bed, where he's flopped on his stomach.

"She did," Derek admits.

"You don't have to," Christian says without looking at him.

"I know. But I want to." Derek pulls out his nephew's rolling desk chair and sits down. "What's going on, Chris?"

"Nothing."

Derek accepts the teenaged answer. "You're … starting high school next year," he tries, tentatively.

"Don't remind me."

Derek considers what might help his nephew open up. "Is there – anything you want to talk about?"

"No."

"Okay." Derek leans back, crossing his legs.

"I mean, yes … but no."

Derek can relate to that.

"Your mom said you didn't want to talk to your dad about it," Derek tries this time.

Chris sits up, shoving his messy hair out of his eyes. Slowly, he nods.

"How come?" Derek asks.

Christian sighs, then stands up and beckons to his uncle to follow.

Derek follows his nephew into the hallway, where Nancy – true to her mother's example – has also covered the walls in framed family photographs.

"Because _this_ is my dad in high school," Christian says, pointing to a photograph so perfectly centered, styled, and white-tooth-smiled it could pass for the picture that comes in the frame when you buy it. Sure enough, Derek recognizes a younger Eric standing in the middle next to a striking girl who must be his sister and another ridiculously tall, muscular teenager who must be his brother. They all look tanned, rugged, sporty … and happy.

"And _this_ ," Christian continues, moving slightly down the wall and pointing again, "is you in high school."

Derek doesn't have to look to recognize the photo. It's one his mother took of the five of them, standing in a clump in the backyard. A younger Nancy is glaring at the camera – understandably, because she was apparently given the task of wrestling little Amy into submission for the photograph. Amy, of course, has her small face screwed up and her tongue sticking out. Liz and Kathleen flank them and in the middle is Derek.

He's wearing a shirt that's too large for him and just emphasizes his skinny frame. His arms are noodles, his hair a wild brillo pad, and the orthodontia his mother saved up for had definitely not kicked in yet.

Christian looks up at him mournfully. "See what I mean?"

"I see what you mean." Derek can't smile, not when his nephew is taking this so seriously. "So – let's talk?"

Christian nods, and leads him back to his bedroom.

"I can't start high school," Chris says as soon as they're back in his room, the door safely shut. "I'm too short and girls don't like me and my hair is stupid and I have braces and Kyle Hart has already kissed _two_ girls."

Derek just nods, listening, as the rest of it pours out.

"Jo has a boyfriend and she's only twelve," Chris continues. "They don't, like, do anything," he adds, possibly off Derek's expression, "but that's not the point. No girls are ever going to like me."

"I don't think that – "

"You have to say that," Chris sighs. "I get it. But you don't understand. Last year the girls were just _regular._ But then this year they're all, like … pretty."

Derek remembers that feeling well. He's fairly certain it happened overnight for him. One day he and Mark were playing pick-up basketball after school and trading baseball cards and the next it seemed like everyone woke up in a different world, where girls like Susie Pembroke and Laura Roberts, who he'd known and ignored since kindergarten, were suddenly taller than he was with bra straps and stockings and perfume and all of a sudden they were all he could think about.

"Girls get taller before boys do," Derek says. "You'll catch up. Even if it doesn't seem that way now."

"I might get taller," Chris says darkly, "but none of the girls will ever like me. Not when Kyle _and_ Greyson are around."

He looks despairing.

"Chris. Do you think Aunt Addie is pretty?"

"Yes," he admits, his cheeks flushing pink, "but not, like, in a _weird_ way, I swear …"

Derek lifts a hand to cut him off. "I know. I'm just saying, you saw that picture of me in high school. But things improved enough for Aunt Addie to be willing to go out with me a few years later."

Fine, it's slightly more than a few, but he's counting on Chris's distress to outweigh his mathematical skills.

"Oh." Chris's eyes are almost hopeful. "But … how did you … improve things?"

"Time," Derek says. "Time improves things. That – and hair product. I'm thinking you need to get a hair regimen," he adds, studying his nephew's wild curls. "Maybe we can figure one out tonight."

"Really?" Chris asks eagerly. "'cause I remember you said that once, the hair regimen thing, when you and Aunt Addie were fighting over whose turn it was for the blowdryer at the beach house, and she said – "

"I remember," Derek interrupts quickly.

"So I asked my dad what his hair regiment was and he was kind of confused and said when he wakes up in the morning he kinda goes like this." Chris runs both his hands briefly through his hair, causing a cacophony of dark spiral curls to fall every which way.

Derek and his nephew exchange a meaningful look. Of course Eric just wakes up with his luxurious dark hair perfectly style-able with no effort at all.

"Well, everyone's hair is different," Derek says.

"Yeah, mine sucks." Chris looks glum again.

"I thought mine … sucked when I was your age too." Derek touches his current hair, which he's not vain enough to say is _outstanding_ , but he can't lie either. "But now …"

Chris looks up at him.

"Let's just say it gets a lot of high grades."

"From girls?" Chris asks eagerly.

Derek nods. "I'm telling you … hair regimen."

Chris nods, his expression resolute.

"I'm ready."

..

A little while and a few pilfered bottles of product from various bathroom cabinets later, they're done.

Chris pats his hair gingerly, looking at his reflection. "I think it's better," he says.

"I know it is."

"It actually looks kind of … good." Chris smiles shyly at him. "Thanks, Uncle Derek."

"Any time." Derek smiles back at him. "We guys have to stick together in this family," he reminds his nephew. "We're severely outnumbered."

Chris nods ruefully. "My sisters always have friends over," he tells his uncle meaningfully.

Derek nods, understanding immediately. "When I was your age, my friends used to tell me that their older sisters' friends would come over and … they'd flirt with them. Me, I was way too shy for that."

Chris nods quickly, then stops, seeming a little embarrassed.

"Not that they would have noticed," Derek says. "My sisters' friends … either ignored me, or made fun of me. And not in a flirty way," he adds.

Chris ponders this. "What about my dad?" he asks. "He was my mom's friend, right?"

Derek smiles at him. "Not your dad," he says truthfully. "Your dad was always nice to me, from the very first time your mom brought him home for everyone to meet. And my hair was extremely frizzy that night – there was a thunderstorm on the whole eastern seaboard."

"Oh." Chris looks a little mollified.

"Your dad is a really good guy," Derek says.

It's true. Privately, Derek has always thought he'd model whatever parenting he's forgotten from his own father on Eric's style. But there's no need to share that with Chris. He hasn't actually shared it with anyone before.

"I know," Chris sighs. "I know he's a good guy. He's really good at everything. And I'm not. And I'm _short._ "

"You're only short for this apartment," Derek says. "Not for the rest of the world."

"I'm the shortest McGuff in four generations," Chris says mournfully. "I didn't even try out for football 'cause I'm too small. I'm stuck playing soccer."

"I thought you liked soccer."

"I do," Chris says. "But still." He looks pained. "Johanna's already taller than I am."

"Well, being really tall when you're a girl isn't the easiest road either," Derek says gently.

"Yeah, so I should be the tall one and Jo can be short."

Derek smiles. "That's not really how it works."

"I bet my dad wishes it worked that way." Chris scowls at his bedspread. "I bet he doesn't want a shrimpy son."

"Your dad loves you," Derek says. "I doubt he cares one bit that you're the – " he tries to remember – "shortest McGuff in four generations. He wasn't the one who told you that, was he?"

"No," Chris admits. "It was one of my dumb cousins."

Derek nods.

"My dad thinks I'm _perfect just the way I am_ ," and Chris says the words with disdain.

Derek nods again, sympathetically.

Suddenly Christian sits up, his expression anxious. "Uncle Derek? Is it, like … insensitive of me to complain about my dad, 'cause you and Mom and them don't have yours?"

"No." Derek smiles at his nephew. "Actually, it's pretty sensitive of you to even think about that."

Christian smiles faintly.

Then he pauses.

"Uncle Derek?" he asks. "Can I ask you another question?"

"Sure."

"Are you and Aunt Addie getting a divorce?"

"No," Derek says quickly, while he tries to figure out what his nephew might have heard. "We're not. Why do you ask that?"

"Something I heard my mom say," Chris says. "Not to me."

"Well, we're not getting a divorce," Derek says. "We live … somewhere else now, but we came back together to visit."

… that's a cleaned-up version of their trip to New York if he's ever heard one, but he hopes it will do.

"We haven't seen you guys in forever," Chris says after a moment.

His freckled face looks very young in the moment, and Derek feels a stab of guilt. Closing the door on his life in New York, quite literally in Addison's face, felt very right at the time.

He might have forgotten how many people were behind that door.

"I wanted to talk to you," Chris admits, "but you never came over."

"I'm sorry." Derek reaches out instinctively to tousle the much-improved hair on his nephew's head, then draws back his hand when he recalls how much work went into those careful tousles. "I know it's different, now that I'm living so far away. But you can call, if you want. Or email."

"My mom said you never picked up when she called. A bunch of times."

Derek raises his eyebrows. "She said that to you?"

"No," Chris admits. "But she did say it. So I figured you didn't want to talk to us."

Derek sighs, trying to figure out how to answer. "I didn't … not want to talk to you," he says finally. "I was getting some space."

"From my mom?"

"From New York," he says. "But that was then, and this is now. If you call me, I'll pick up. Unless I'm working. But if I'm working, I'll call you back. And the same goes for your mom. Okay?"

"Okay," Christian says, looking happier now. He touches his hair self-consciously. "Do girls really like curly hair?"

Derek considers the last six months of his life. "Too many girls," he says.

Chris grins. "Uncle Derek – can I ask you one more question?"

"You can ask me whatever you want." Derek smiles at his nephew, still riding the wave of good uncle-ing. "Is this something else about girls?"

"No. Well, kind of. But also kind of the opposite."

"Oh." Derek isn't sure what he means, but he gives his nephew an encouraging nod.

"Okay." Chris takes a deep breath. "So Kyle said something about peach pie, and Jackson knows how to bake, but the thing is that I'm allergic to stone fruits …"

..

Derek staggers out of his nephew's room feeling like he needs a drink.

Or seven.

Or, taking a page from his wife's book … just the whole bottle.

..

Addison, alone on the living room couch, is still trying to figure out how to get enough mobility to cross her legs. Not crossing her legs just feels – wrong. At least her mother isn't here to see it.

Although her mother's reaction to seeing her in this outfit would probably be full-on apoplexy, so maybe it would be worth it …

"You can't cross your legs."

Addison looks up at the interruption to see her niece giving her a knowing look. "Alice! This costume is impossible to move in."

"I know." Alice sits down next to her. "I wore it for three shows. I had to dance in it and everything."

"You were incredible, though," Addison says. "I saw the whole thing."

"You did?"

"Of course I did. Your mom sent me the video. I wish I could have been there in person, but – ." Addison stops talking.

But they live in Seattle now.

"My best friend played Roger," Alice tells her.

"Kiera," Addison says, unsurprised. "I remember her. How is she doing?"

"She's good." Alice settles back against the couch, smiling. "What was your favorite part?" she asks.

"Your big number, of course." Addison smiles at her niece. Watching the DVD Nancy sent on her laptop while she sat alone in the rain-spattered trailer was actually a high point of her time in Seattle. It was last month, and she was feeling raw and emotional already – enough so that she cried through half the high school play. It was a combination of the tragic subject matter and the innocence of its performers, she's pretty sure.

Maybe a little of her own grief thrown in for good measure.

"Aunt Addie?"

"Hm?" Addison smiles at her niece.

"Do you like living in Seattle?"

"Honestly?" Addison tries to lean back on the couch and fails, the pleather holding her up like a suit of armor. "Not really."

Alice smiles a little. "Then how come you're living there?"

"Because Uncle Derek lives there," Addison says truthfully. Her niece may only be fifteen, but she has some of her mother's demeanor: it compels information.

"Oh." Alice considers this. "That kind of sucks."

 _You said it, sister._

"It's okay. It's, you know, starting somewhere new, and that can be – " Addison stops talking. "Never mind. I'd rather hear how _you're_ doing. How's school? You must have a lot of free time now that the play's over."

"Not really." Alice draws her legs up under her. "I'm helping to organize the Sex Positivity Fair this year and there's so much to do. I was actually hoping to talk to you about it."

Addison glances around the room, feeling a little trapped. "You mean about … fundraising … or?"

Alice shakes her head.

"Oh." Addison pauses. "Honey, I'm happy to – um – talk to you, but you know, your mom knows a lot about … this kind of thing."

"Aunt Addie, that is _disgusting._ " Alice shakes her head. "Like seriously gross. She's my _mom._ "

Addison smiles weakly.

"And anyway, she's totally hung up about this stuff. You'd think someone with five kids would be a little more sex positive."

"Right." Addison feels herself flushing. "So – sure. Tell me all about it."

When Alice starts to talk, Addison starts to wish she'd never agreed to wear pleather.

The outfit is making it impossible to do what she'd like to do: get up and run away.

Fast.

"Aunt Addie?" Alice is looking at her expectantly.

"Um. Can you go over that last part again?"

"You mean the part where the headmaster said we could only order _one_ box of dental dams, but then Kiera and Stu did the PowerPoint presentation?"

"Yes … that part," Addison says after a moment. With some effort, she lifts a hand to massage the tight muscles in her neck, but unfortunately she can't quite reach them in her pleather getup.

..

"… and you're right, copper IUDs are making a comeback." Addison massages the tight muscles in her neck. She has a headache, and she could really use a drink. Or ten. "But Alice, honey, like I said, you should really run this by your mom … ."

"I'm not going to do that."

"She's very open-minded."

"Um, no she's not, first of all, have you _met_ her? And second of all, she's like obsessed with hormonal birth control and that stuff fucks you up." She pauses. "Sorry, I mean _screws_ you up. We're really more into natural methods."

 _So was your grandmother and she had five kids._

Addison just nods. "Well, I think it's great that the girls in your class are so – open-minded."

"It's a co-ed club, Aunt Addie."

"The girls and … boys," she corrects herself.

"They're _guys_ , not boys," Alice says. She's patient and kind with her corrections, like when Addison used to help her remember which side of the fork to hold.

Which was not that long ago.

My, how things have changed.

Alice's smile has turned a little shy, and her aunt picks up on the change in tone.

"And is there anyone special?" Addison asks, innocently. "Any of the guys in the club, I mean?"

"I'm bi," Alice says.

"By what?"

"Bi _sexual_." Alice shakes her head. "Aunt Addie, you are not really keeping up. I already told you about how my ex-girlfriend is president of the All Sexualities Alliance and she's threatening to have _her_ fundraising on the same day 'cause she's still pissed about what happened at the protest."

"You did. Right." Addison must have been praying for the conversation to end then and missed it, somehow, between pleas to whatever god was listening.

"And now my boyfriend is mad because the Vegan Network can't use the social hall while we're setting up. But I think it's really because _his_ ex-boyfriend is trying to sabotage his run for head of Student Policy Sub-Committee, which is completely unfair because … . "

..

Addison runs right into Derek in one of the winding hallways. As in, directly into him.

It's been quite a journey.

When Alice finally finished her story, she was kind enough to help haul Addison into a standing position, and she immediately turned pleather tail to run for the hills.

Or at least the halls.

Derek doesn't look much better than she feels. His eyes are wide, his face pale.

"Are you okay?" she asks immediately.

"I'm … okay." He looks at her for a moment. "Are you okay?" he asks in return. "You're all … pale."

"Well, so are you."

"Yeah." He grips the back of his neck for a moment. "I was, uh, I was talking to Christian."

"Ah." It makes sense now. "I was talking to Alice."

They're both quiet for a moment.

"They're really … growing up," Addison says faintly.

Derek grimaces.

"Is it just me … or do you think teenagers make toilet training look easy?" she asks after a moment.

"It's not just you. I was thinking the same thing," he says, "and I sacrificed a good pair of jeans to the difficulties of toilet training."

She smiles a little. "I like those jeans."

"Good thing they're washable."

His eyes are soft, and she moves to touch his face, her pants squeaking as she does so.

"I'm sorry I made you wear those … things," Derek says ruefully, eyeing her pleather outfit.

"I'm not." Addison smiles a little. "I mean, they're not exactly comfortable and I think Alice might end up in therapy but … if it made you feel better about your pants, then I think it was worth it."

Derek cocks his head. "That's … strangely sweet."

"I'm sweet." She leans back a little to see him better, frowning slightly. "Don't you think I'm sweet?"

He brushes back some of her hair and tastes her lips, gently. She lets him before fending him off, but can't help smiling at the expression on his face.

"You're right," he says. "Sweet."

"It's Nancy's cake."

"Nancy's razor-free cake."

They're both quiet for a moment.

Derek reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair out of her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek. She turns her palm into his hand. It's nice feeling on the same team for a moment, even if she can barely move, she's fairly certain she's breaking out in a pleather rash, and Derek's _Juicy_ -emblazoned backside is equally emblazoned in her memory.

His thumb traces her ear and she feels a shiver run through her that has nothing to do with the strapless pleather top she's wearing.

"Derek …"

"Hm?"

"I could go … see if your jeans are dry," she offers. Her mouth is a little dry, in fact.

"You could," he said. He's just – looking at her, in the dim hallway light. They can hear sounds from the other rooms, but the apartment is huge and cavernous, and they're alone in the hallway.

"Do you _want_ me to go see if your jeans are dry?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "No."

"Okay." She smiles at him and he shifts the hand touching her face so he's cupping her jaw, and draws her closer.

She sighs against his mouth. Everything feels better when they're touching, and everything _else_ goes away: the gallery of pictures that left Derek so tense, the issues between them that they still haven't discussed, even the confusing sexual politics of their niece's progressive secondary school.

Derek's hands are sliding over her bare arms. She can't melt into him the way she'd like; the costume is too stiff.

A sudden musical note rings out in the hallway.

"Nancy's dryer!" Addison's eyes light up. "Your stuff is dry. Which means I can change. Fair's fair."

Derek looks a little confused.

"Can you help me get this outfit off?" she asks.

He doesn't look confused anymore.

He looks … determined.

..

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me."

"We can explain," Addison says in a small voice. She can't see Nancy exactly, but she can hear her.

Derek can see his sister, though. Her hands are on her hips, outlined in the now-open bathroom door, and she's glaring at both of them.

"I'm sure you can," Nancy says coolly. "Go on. I've heard them all."

"Nancy, wait. That's not – look, I realize how this looks," Derek says, gesturing at Addison, who is currently splayed face down on the bathmat while Derek, straddling her prone form, yanks at the waistband of her pleather pants. Each yank pulls her body up into a bow shape, but the pants haven't budged yet.

"Do you?" Nancy asks, sounding very unconvinced.

"Yes," Derek says firmly. "But the thing is, I just trying to take Addison's pants off."

"Oh, _just_ that?"

"No, you don't understand. My jeans are dry, and we were going to change, but – she's stuck," Derek says.

"Only a little stuck," Addison interrupts as Derek tugs again, lifting her half off the floor. Her voice is faint; the blood is starting to rush to her head.

"Addie." Derek is trying to move her more upright now. "Are you okay in there?"

"I'm okay. I think."

"So she really is stuck," Nancy says.

"She really is stuck." Derek sits back on his heels, resting a hand on Addison's pleather-covered leg. "They seem to have shrunk or something. And they might be cutting off her circulation. So – can you help?"

"I guess I can try."

She does try, to her credit.

It does not, unfortunately, work.

None of it.

Pulling doesn't work.

Peeling doesn't work.

Yanking definitely doesn't work, though it does make Addison shriek at impressively eardrum-splitting levels.

Moisturizer doesn't work.

Baby oil doesn't work either, but by this time Addison is so slippery that she slides out of Derek's grip and knocks her funny bone on the side of the tub.

"Fuck."

"Stop, that's how you ended up in this mess," Nancy scolds while Derek alternately glares at her and massages the sore spot on Addison's elbow.

"We're going to get you out of there, don't worry." Derek gives Addison what he hopes is an encouraging smile. Secretly, he's starting to think they're never going to get her out of there. The material will just adhere to her skin forever, and he'll spend the rest of their lives in Seattle explaining to people why his wife is half human and half a sentient pair of leather pants.

More oil.

"Nance … your bathmat," Addison bleats.

"Oh, don't worry. This bathroom is slated for demo tomorrow," Nancy says. "We're redoing it from scratch. So you picked the right one. No one will see this mess except the contractor."

Addison and Derek exchange a glance. Picking the right anything seems like a stretch … but they'll take it.

And speaking of _stretch_ …

"Ow! My legs don't bend that way!" Addison shrieks, and Derek heroically refrains from comment … since his sister is listening.

"Can't you just try to – "

But the material snaps back tighter than ever. Addison groans, hiding her face in her hands.

"Okay, that it." Nancy sits back on her heels. "I'm going to get my pinking shears."

"Don't let her cut off my legs," Addison whispers, extracting a promise from her husband with minimal effort – then again, he has his own dog in that race.

Nancy returns shortly with a pair of massive pinking shears.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Addison asks nervously.

"Addie, how many C-sections have I done?"

"A lot, but the point here is to _not_ cut me open." Addison turns to her husband for support.

"Nance … are you sure about this?" he asks, to her satisfaction.

"Yes, Derek, I'm sure about this." Nancy props a hand on her hip. "Remember all those paper dolls Kathy and I used to cut out?"

"The stakes were a little lower there."

"Not exactly. I mean, Kathleen was involved, and you know what she's like."

"True."

Brother and sister reminisce silently, together, for a moment.

"Okay, I consent. Start cutting, please, because I'm starting to lose circulation in my legs," Addison interrupts at last.

"Fine, but you have to let me cut without – "

"It's too close to my skin!" Addison squeaks.

"Yeah, _skintight_ isn't just an adjective."

"You're going to cut me."

"I am if you don't hold still," Nancy grits.

"Derek!" Addison grabs his arm with panicked fingers.

"She's not going to cut you," he assures her, then turns to Nancy. "Do you mind?" he asks.

"Do I mind – cutting my daughter's theatre costume off my sister-in-law, who put it on because my brother is wearing my sweatpants? Is that what you're asking if I mind?"

Addison and Derek exchange a look. When she puts it that way ….

..

And that's how Nancy ends up on the floor with the pair of them, Derek half supporting Addison and half guiding the pinking shears. Addison, for her part, has her eyes squeezed tightly shut, occasionally contributing encouragement in the form of whispering to Derek that the rest of his night isn't going to be much fun if Nancy ends up nicking an artery.

Finally – painstakingly, and even terrifyingly – she's free.

"I'll buy Alice a new costume," Addison says meekly. She's rubbing her very slippery, slightly sore legs.

"Don't worry about it." Nancy stands up. "You want to shower, or – never mind," she says quickly. "Just – here." She tosses Addison a towel, then strides out with one last warning look tossed over her shoulder.

Derek helps her wipe the moisturizer and oil off her legs.

Or he intends to.

But when he starts to swipe at the combined unguents, one hand just slides down the slippery skin of her thigh while the other grips the slick surface of her calf and she lets out a soft little sound – not a moan, but not _not_ a moan either.

"Sorry." She flushes a little. "My legs are – a little stiff from those stupid pants."

He doesn't offer, and she doesn't ask.

But her eyes are big and blue in this light, beseeching, and he finds both hands at work on her legs, massaging feeling back into them. His palms slide easily over their familiar shape, easing the tension.

She sighs with relief as her muscles loosen. His palms are warm and sure.

She feels better.

A lot better.

A lot less tense.

Except a different kind of tension is starting to emerge.

She shifts on the thick mat. "Derek …"

He laughs a little, pressing his lips the inside of one thigh, then lifting her other leg in his hand to kiss the perfect shape of her calf muscle.

"Don't tease," she whispers.

"Who's teasing?" He props one leg on his shoulder and leans closer, brushing his fingers between her thighs. She gasps a little when he touches a sensitive spot.

"We're still at Nancy's."

"Oh, I know that." Derek glances up. "But I did lock the door."

"You're still wearing Nancy's sweatpants," Addison points out.

"So take them off," he says.

Her cheeks flush. "Actually … I kind of like them on." She reaches out and grips his hips, one of her hands wandering to see if she can trace the word _Juicy_ stamped in un-Derek-like fashion across the seat of said pants.

He lets her for a little while, then captures her hand and kisses her palm.

Her gaze slides down to the front of the sweatpants. "Maybe Nancy will let you keep them," she suggests.

"At this rate … she probably should." He eases down next to her.

"Sorry I keep frustrating you," Addison says. Her eyes are downcast toward the part of her body she's apparently decided is a traitor, though he's loath to attach any negative word to it.

Not when it's one of his favorite places, bar none.

"Who says I'm frustrated?" he asks, swallowing hard when one of her nimble hands cups him through the thick material of the sweatpants while the other starts pulling at the drawstring holding them up.

He captures her hands again, enjoying the way she feels against him as she wriggles, trying to free them. He slides his free hand down, admiring the pink lace joining the tops of her thighs. It's pale, peachy, like an extension of her rosy skin.

"I bought them for you," she says when she catches him looking.

"Pink isn't really my color."

"Very funny." She tilts her head a little, her hair falling to the side. "You don't like them?"

"You know that's not true." He's tracing the edges of the lace boundary while she watches him, intently. One finger slips inside the fabric and she gulps when it brushes against her, first very gently and then more insistently. He kisses her, swallowing a moan as he draws back his hand so he can lift her, settling her on his lap while he leans back against the oversized bathtub.

She looks almost amused, her eyes heavy-lidded, as she leans in close to kiss him back. It's slow and long and he tastes the depth of red wine on her lips. He catches her lower lip between his teeth when she starts to end the kiss, pulling her back. A little sound escapes her and he swears he can feel her getting heavier on his lap. He knows what that means – that little sound, the boneless weight of her – and when he slips a hand between their bodies the heat is practically enough to burn him.

If that weren't enough – the things she's whispering to him might just kill him.

"We need to wait," he reminds her.

"Just do it."

" _Just do it?_ " He frowns. "I'm not a machine … remember?"

"I know that." She shifts on his lap, trying to get more friction. He lets her, concentrating instead on the top half of her body. The pink lace may be all Addison but the black leather bustier with its weird zipper is … something else entirely.

She looks down, her expression doubtful. "It's ridiculous. I know."

"I didn't say that." He studies the shirt – if it can be called a shirt – again. It's heavily boned, pushing her breasts up deliciously so their tops are exposed.

Lightly, he runs the back of one finger across impossibly soft skin.

"Take it off," she suggests. "It's tight."

"Yeah?" He leans forward instead, dropping a kiss in the space between the two soft swells. When she doesn't protest, he buries his face a little deeper, his hands sliding down her back to draw her in.

When he finally sits back up, the skin at her chest is as rosy as her flushed cheeks.

 _Take it off_ seems like a good idea now, except –

"Oh, please don't call Nancy back in here," she groans.

The threat of it is enough for him to figure out how to get the damned thing off her, and it's worth it when the stiff black plasticky fabric falls away and there's no barrier between his hands and her soft skin.

She's uncharacteristically docile as he palms both breasts at once, greedily, re-familiarizing himself with the shapes he memorized long ago. He teases their hardened tips, flicking with his thumbs simultaneously in the way he knows she likes. She leans back a little on his lap, sighing, her eyes half closed.

And then his eyes are widening, because her hands have slipped into the space between them, stroking him even as she rocks against him with her hips. He releases her breasts to pull her body closer to his until there's no space at all. When she tries to unbutton his shirt, he captures her hands.

"Leave it."

"Oh, you get to wear a shirt but I don't?" She leans back, raising her eyebrows and managing to look fairly stern considering she's wearing nothing but a pair of pink lace panties, straddling his lap, and shifting a little in that way that suggests she's anything but mad at him.

"You definitely don't." Derek leans forward, capturing one rosy nipple in his mouth and looping his arm around her back to pull her against him. Her hands tangle in his hair and he laughs a little around the bud between his lips.

They were always sneaking off at Christmas or Easter or Thanksgiving, thrilled to get a few moments' break from school and their studies, stealing little bits of glances and kisses and touches from each other whenever they could.

Sometimes it feels like she's in every memory he has.

Some of the most memorable ones.

Some of the –

He finds himself gasping a little; apparently missing his attention when his mind wandered, Addison has taken it upon herself to bring his mouth back in contact with her flesh. He's not going to refuse that, so he teases her a little with his tongue while his hand makes sure her other breast doesn't feel ignored. Dividing his attention is a challenge … but he's up for it.

She murmurs his name, her fingers tangling in his hair. Her neck arches away and he leaves her breasts to grip a handful of her hair for support and turn instead to the tender skin at her throat.

The heat of her against him is burning when she finally pushes him away. "We need to go back out there," she whispers. "We're being – rude – "

He nods, knowing she's right, but he's already peeling the pink lace away from her hips, and she doesn't protest when he slides it down her thighs.

He urges her to her knees, bringing his face right to the level he wants it. He cups her firmly with both hands – well aware of her _angry octopus_ tendencies – and true to form, the first time his tongue slides against her, she bucks so hard that she almost concusses both of them.

"Hold still."

"I can't!"

He believes her. But maybe they can together, so he doesn't give up, even when she tries to tug him into an easier position. He maintains his grip, her soft cheeks filling his palm and straining against his grip while he tips his jaw to the perfect angle to taste her.

It doesn't take long at all – but they don't fall, and he holds her still enough that he can finish and close enough that he feels every shudder that runs through her when she does. Finally, he releases the grip he had on her backside and lets her flop boneless against him.

He runs his fingers through her hair once he has feeling in his hands again.

His body throbs almost painfully at her closeness – he wants nothing more than to rid himself of these ridiculous sweatpants and bury himself deep inside the heat that's still pulsing against him.

She whispers his name, but he shakes his head.

"Derek … it's okay."

"We're giving you a break, remember?"

"I don't want a break."

"You need a break," he reminds her.

"I don't."

Gently, he slides a finger inside her, and then a second, testing. She winces at the pressure.

"No."

"But I can't wait any longer," she groans.

"Addie … it's been less than a day."

"It feels like forever."

"Yeah?" He leans in and kisses her. "Let's remember this the next time you claim you don't exaggerate."

"I never exaggerate!"

"I didn't realize the _next time_ would come so soon," he says, amused.

"Sooner than you will," she mutters.

But she's all talk, because she's shoving at his sweatpants and he's letting her push them off him. Then she's sliding half off his lap to brace herself, arching her back so he can taste the skin at her neck and leave slow lazy kisses on each of her breasts and the little valley of skin between them. He doesn't even miss her incredibly talented mouth – she makes short work of him with just one expert hand and in this position she's staring straight at him with enough intensity to hasten the end.

"Addie – "

She's not looking at him anymore, and he doesn't think he can last even long enough for her to slide down his body, but somehow he does, and when he's engulfed in the heat of her warm welcome mouth he loses all control.

She's grinning up at him when he comes back to himself, still lapping at him a bit, catlike, and it's enough to make his body throb despite what she's already done to it.

He grabs damp handfuls of her hair to urge her away and she lets him, crawling up his body and curling spent against him.

"I didn't want to make a mess," she explains when he gives her an inquisitive – and sated – look.

Oh.

That explains it.

It's so like Addison to be so neat … and so filthy … all at once.

"We're guests in this house," she adds primly, squeaking with surprise when he runs a finger down her ribs.

"And Nancy's gutting this bathroom tomorrow," Derek reminds her.

Addison raises her eyebrows hopefully. "Does that mean – "

"No." Derek shakes his head, amused. "Definitely not. I'm tired. I'm not a machine. Addison, what are you – "

..

"Thank you so much for having us, Nancy," Addison says sweetly. She's back in the tasteful outfit she chose to wear for dinner with her sister-in-law's family, and if her legs are a little shaky, she's pretty sure it doesn't show.

"Any time." Nancy is eyeing Derek and Addison with a rather suspicious expression.

Addison just smiles back serenely, tucking her tangled hair behind her ears. "And … I'm sorry about Alice's costume. We had to throw out what was left of it."

"I figured." Nancy pauses. "What about my sweatpants? Derek?"

"We threw those out too," he admits. His heart is still racing a little, but hopefully it doesn't show under his shirt.

Nancy's eyes widen.

"I stretched them out?" Derek offers.

"Are you asking her or telling her?" Addison hisses under her breath. She smiles in Nancy's direction. "They're a little 2003 anyway," she says kindly.

"They're – what?" Nancy props a hand on her hip.

"And I'll buy you new ones," Addison adds. "You said you liked those grey cashmere ones I had last Easter, didn't you?"

"Oh, those are still in fashion?" Nancy asks acidly.

Addison mumbles something about _timeless classics_ while Derek adds his thanks over his wife's.

Nancy opens the door. "Don't be strangers," she says, then pauses. "Maybe don't be _quite_ as close as you were tonight, but – "

"We didn't do anything," Addison says automatically.

"Thanks again for the cake," Derek says.

"And it was great to see the kids again," Addison adds, her voice growing a little fainter. "They're all, um, they're growing up so fast."

"And if not, I'm sure you've hurried them along." With that, Nancy tempers her rather frosty words with warm hugs for both of them.

..

"Well." Addison smooths her hair as they wait for the elevator. "I think that went pretty smoothly, don't you?"

Derek stares.

Addison starts laughing first.

Derek joins her by the time the old-fashioned elevator arrives and they spend a good five minutes shoving at the folded wire grate before they fold their bodies into the small space.

"Are we setting the bar low?" he asks, as she takes advantage of the telephone-booth-sized elevator to press herself closely against him.

"We're setting it _high_ ," Addison corrects him firmly.

He raises his eyebrows.

"It's a matter of perspective," she explains. "One person's low can be another person's high."

Derek feigns confusion. "What I think you're saying … is that we should be looking at each other from upside down?"

She can't help grinning in response. "Have I ever told you I love the way you think?"

"Not often enough," Derek tells her.

"I'll have to work on that." Addison leans her head against him as the elevator slowly creaks its way down to the lobby.

It's a long ride to the lobby, so she might as well make it interesting.

"Addie, what are you – how many times do I have to tell you I'm not a machine?"

"You're more of a machine than this elevator," Addison says, grinning up at him.

"Okay, fine, but you can't – "

"You want me to stop?" She leans back, all big, innocent eyes.

Not so innocent.

"No," he admits.

"I was hoping you'd say that," she says with a broad smile.

Derek tips his head back against the knotted wooden walls of this deathtrap elevator.

He supposes if he's going to die in a claustrophobic tin can, he might as well –

"Addison?"

"What?"

There's that innocent expression again.

"Nothing," he mutters.

"I didn't think so."

She looks awfully satisfied.

But, by the time the elevator makes it to the lobby and they grunt and puff their way, red-faced, through forcing open the metal grate – only to see an elderly couple with two small dogs frowning disapprovingly at their disarrayed appearance – well, Derek is pretty satisfied too.

"I love New York," Addison murmurs as they step out into the cool, dark night.

For once, he can't even disagree.

* * *

 _ **The End - but not really. Just for this chapter. There's still so much more for Addek to do in New York. I know some parts of this chapter got serious, but you can always count on Addison and Derek to bring back levity. Lust. Whatever. I knew it was a word starting with L. Did you enjoy this? I hope you'll review and let me know. Any guesses on what might be coming up next? :)**_

 _ **PS Addek-shaped cookies to anyone who recognizes the title of this chapter.**_

 _ **PPS Apologies and thanks to Dr. Seuss and Jonathan Larson.**_

 _ **PPPS I know the frisk quotient has gone down a bit in the last couple chapters. Never fear - you know these two have more up their, er, sleeves.**_


	9. almost too easy

**A/N: Thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter! I had a lot of fun writing it. Derek's family definitely hasn't made their last appearance for this story. So now, slipping in under the wire - so to speak - for Thirsty Thursday, here's the next chapter of Our Heroes' attempts to survive in the wilds of Manhattan while keeping their clothes on. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 **Six Miles High, Part Nine  
 _Almost Too Easy_**

* * *

 _Dear Carter_ ,

 _Thank you for reaching out. Weiss spoke very highly of you, and we appreciate your willingness to represent us. We look forward to meeting you tomorrow. If there's anything you need from us in the meantime, please let us know._

 _Regards,  
Addison and Derek Shepherd_

Addison pauses with her fingers still on the keyboard of her blackberry, pursing her lips. "Does _regards_ sound too stuffy?" she asks.

"He's a lawyer, Addie," Derek says. "At a law firm with twelve names. I don't think he has a problem with stuffy."

"Good point." She reads the email again. "Weiss did say he just wanted to meet us and get to know us … before the hearing."

Derek nods.

"Okay. I'm sending the email."

Not ten seconds after the message leaves, her blackberry vibrates.

"He responded!"

She opens the email.

"He says …" her voice trails off a little. " _Just keep your clothes on in public. Thanks_ ," she reads.

"So he doesn't mince words," Derek says, "which I guess is a good thing at his prices."

"He's a little _too_ un-minced if you ask me." Addison tosses her hair. " _Just keep your clothes on in public_? It's very forward of him, don't you think?"

"He _is_ representing us on a public indecency charge," Derek reminds her.

"That doesn't mean we don't know how to keep our clothes on in public!"

"Actually, Addie … that's exactly what it means."

"Whose side are you on?" she demands.

"Yours," he says. "But you know Weiss wants to make sure I stay on the right … side of you."

Addison opens her mouth to retort, then closes it. It's almost too easy.

(But then again, so are they.)

"So." She slides her blackberry back into its case and adopts the bossy-ish tone she uses with her residents. "We're meeting Carter tomorrow at his office at … three. Which means we just need to make it through the rest of the night – "

" – and we're already in the hotel," Derek reminds her. They've been back from Nancy's nearly an hour so far and haven't been arrested once, or even walked in on by a nosy concierge, both of which he's counting as a victory. "So making it through the rest of the night is pretty much a given."

Addison studies him for a moment. "You realize we were in the hotel the night with the scarves," she points out.

"Oh."

"And the night with the strawberries and the – "

" – okay, fine. The point is, we'll get through tonight," Derek says again.

"Right. And then tomorrow morning."

"Easy," Derek assures her.

"Simple."

"A no-brainer, and speaking as a brain surgeon – Addison, what are you doing?"

"Nothing," she says quickly, snatching her hand away.

"You still can't handle the term _brain surgeon_? Really? After all these years?"

Addison hangs her head a little.

"God, you're like Pavlov's sex maniac. And _stop_ looking at me like that," he orders.

"Like what?"

"Like we haven't just been arrested for public indecency!"

"Derek, that was _days_ ago," she scoffs.

They both stop as the import of her words sinks in.

"Fine," she says grumpily. "I'll keep my clothes on."

"Good."

"Great." She pauses. "There's just one thing …"

..

"Remind me how you convinced me to give you a massage."

"Funny story." She sits up a little on her elbows, causing the towel covering the middle of her body to slip. He snatches it back into place quickly before he can be tempted.

"Go on," he says.

"My muscles are all … stiff from wearing that getup at Nancy's and having to wrestle it off me _and_ it was your idea for me to wear it!"

"Actually, it was Alice's idea."

"The leather pants may have been Alice's idea, but wearing something ridiculous was _your_ idea, or did you forget Nancy's Juicy sweatpants?"

"I tried to," he says with dignity, "but you won't exactly let me."

"My point is, my legs are sore. And my – neck. And my back."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing on the outside, anyway," she mutters.

He rolls up his sleeves – after a quick and smug pause to congratulate himself for still wearing a shirt.

"Wait!"

He stops, his hands still inches above her. "What is it?"

"You need the massage oil."

"That seems unwise."

"It's very wise," she says indignantly, rising up on her elbows again as he hastily adjusts the towel that's attempting to cover her. "I brought it specifically for that reason."

"You planned this?"

"Not all of it!" She frowns. "Not the arrest, anyway."

He groans, but makes his way to Addison's typically massive collection of toiletries at her specific – and loud – and critical directions.

The good news is that by the time he's returned to her side with a small bottle of massage oil that he's fairly certain from experience cost as much as the rent on their first apartment, he's feeling less than thrilled with her.

And _less than thrilled_ is good when you're basically on sex parole.

"No funny business," Addison warns him as he settles in beside her.

"No funny – seriously? This was your idea!"

"A massage was my idea. But that's all." Addison pauses. "And I know who I'm dealing with."

"I can give you a massage without … funny business," he says, a little offended.

Addison doesn't say anything.

"We certainly haven't had sex every time I've given you a massage," he adds. "We're talking about – sixteen years."

She's very silent.

"Addie. Come on." He thinks about it. Surely he can come up with a good example.

"It's not my fault your hands are so – good," she says innocently.

"Hamstring tear!" he calls out triumphantly.

"Pardon?"

"You tore your hamstring. Second year of residency. Remember? I'm sure I gave you a massage then without – "

"Nope," Addison interrupts. "We figured it out."

"We did," Derek echoes. "We did? Really?"

"Yes, remember the – " her hands arc in the air.

"Oh!" Derek nods with agreement. "Whatever happened to that swing?" he asks.

"I think Kathleen burned it."

"Right." Derek smiles at her. "Your hamstring healed well, anyway."

"Probably all the endorphins."

He says something under his breath, but she doesn't respond ... maybe because the endorphins are starting to flow again.

 _Damn_ , but he's good with his hands. She's paid top dollar for massages from experienced professionals and nothing compares to Derek's.

… then again, she supposes no one else knows her body as well as he does, either.

He keeps it strictly chaste, too.

..

… until he doesn't.

But she's not going to complain, not when she's too busy practically purring with delight. Maybe this soreness isn't the worst thing. It's making them get creative.

(Although she supposes Weiss – and the NYPD officers who arrested them – might argue that they're creative enough already.)

"Derek?"

"Hm?" He's been running his fingers up and down her spine; she's so relaxed she's practically unconscious.

"I think I'm starting to like abstaining," she murmurs.

"If this is your definition of abstinence then I'm a little nervous about what you tell your patients."

She looks like she'd like to swat him but doesn't actually plan to make any effort – that is, one of her very relaxed hands twitches a little where it's resting on his chest.

"I'm tired," she admits.

"From all that work you did getting a massage?" he teases.

Her hand twitches again. She wraps her leg a little more securely around him and then something else twitches too.

"I guess you're not tired," she says pointedly.

"I'm not tired, but I'm also not a machine."

"Your mouth keeps saying that, but your – "

"I get it," he interrupts her quickly.

"It's just … I could really use a bath," she sighs longingly.

"A clean bath?"

"What other kinds of baths are there?" she asks.

"With you?"

She can see his point. Starting to wake up a little more, she leans back so she can see his face and trails a finger down his chest. "I'm just saying … I'm all … relaxed now, and if we take a bath … ."

"No," he says firmly. "You need a break."

Ugh.

She flops back onto him, frustrated. "You know, I'm not _injured_ , Derek. The vagina is a muscle, if you weren't aware, and like any muscle – "

"Yes, I've been married to a gynecologist for eleven years. I'm well acquainted with the miraculous capacity of the human vagina."

"So?"

"So we're still waiting until tomorrow."

She pouts. "Tomorrow is hours away."

"Yes. That's sort of the whole point of … tomorrow. If it were right away, we'd call it _now._ "

She sits up, running frustrated fingers through her hair. "That's all very philosophical, Derek, but I don't know what you expect me to do until tomorrow. Join a convent?"

"Do they take applicants who only want to serve for – " he checks his watch – "two and a half hours?"

"I guess the only way to find out is to ask."

She leans across his body and reaches for the phone on his bedside table.

"Are you actually going to make an inquiry at a convent?" He sits up a little, curious. "Who exactly are you planning to call?"

"Room service," she says as if it's obvious. "For champagne. We're not abstaining from _everything_."

"Ah, that makes more sense. The only nun I've ever seen you in contact with is the Mother Superior from the Abbey in the _Sound of Music_ – oh, no."

" _Oh, no_ , what?"

"Oh no, I know what the _Sound of Music_ does to you."

"It's not my fault! It's Captain Von Trapp's." She sighs dreamily. "Those eyes … that accent … the way he stands up to the Nazis … ."

"He's hardly the only man in the world with blue eyes," Derek says pointedly. "There's a whole country of people with that accent – and yes, that _is_ why I turned down that conference in London – and you know those weren't actually real Nazis. They were actors pretending to goosestep. It doesn't take a lot of _gladiator_ to stand up to a bunch of actors pretending to goosestep."

"Shut up." She covers her ears, then lifts her hands off them again. "Don't ruin it. It's bad enough you didn't want to go to Salzburg."

"But I did go. Didn't I?" he reminds her. "You made me drive all the way from Vienna in that tiny car so you could find the fountain where they … ."

His voice trails off.

"Do you suppose the NYPD has access to international records?" he asks after a moment.

"Let's hope not," Addison says. She leans a little closer. "But speaking of – "

"No," he says firmly. "We're waiting until tomorrow."

She throws her hands in the air, frustrated.

"What are we supposed to do until then?"

..

" … sounds like," Addison says glumly as Derek tugs on his ear.

His hands move in the air.

"Sounds like … _boron_ ," Addison says, still in a monotone. She's sitting on the sleek white armchair with her legs crossed, her chin propped in her hand, taking occasional sips of champagne.

Derek beams, tapping his nose with one finger. When Addison doesn't speak again, he starts gesturing, waiting for her to respond.

"Barium," Addison proposes after a long pause.

Derek shakes his head and repeats his gestures, this time adding a little fancy footwork.

"Bohrium," she guesses unenthusiastically.

Derek frowns, shaking his head, and starts gesturing again.

"…fine, I give up."

"Xenon!" he says triumphantly.

"Fine, you win this round of element charades too," she says, sounding bored, then pauses. "Wait, xenon? How does xenon sound more like boron than barium _or_ bohrium?" she demands.

"It's all in the tongue movement," he says seriously. "See, try it. _Bo-ron_ ," he enunciates slowly. "Try it with your tongue."

"Thanks, but I think I'll save my tongue for tomorrow," she says, then smiles hopefully. "Unless you've changed your mind about … ?"

He shakes his head.

"Fine." She folds her arms, pouting.

"So let's go to bed – _sleep_ , I mean," he says quickly when her eyes light up.

"You're no fun," she scowls.

He pulls her close to whisper in her ear: "You won't be saying that tomorrow."

She beams. "That's more like it."

..

Derek is dreaming – a nice dream, a _Weiss wouldn't appreciate this if it took place in public_ sort of dream, when his eyes fly open only to find a pair of huge, blue-green eyes locked on his.

"Addie." His hearth thumps. "Are you trying to give me a stroke?"

"No," she says. "I was trying to give you _something_ , but I didn't think a stroke was the best way."

He glances down and sees that his dream is at least part reality.

"Not that I'm complaining … but what happened to sleeping in?"

"I did," she says indignantly. "It's already seven-thirty."

Derek pulls her down against his chest. "You know what? I think you've been working in hospitals too long."

She settles comfortably against him; her body feels warm and soft, her long hair spread out all over both of them like always. He runs his fingers gently through the closest strands and feels her wince, then laugh a little at the tangles.

"I can't seem to keep my hair brushed in Manhattan," she admits.

"That seems like the least of your problems."

"True," she says. She turns her head to drop a kiss on his chest. "So … it's tomorrow," she informs him huskily.

"It's actually today."

"You know perfectly well what I mean."

"I do know what you mean." And if he didn't, it would be clear now anyway, since she's no longer curled sweetly into him like a sleepy cat and instead poised over him like a very awake … lioness.

"Does this mean you're recovered?" He runs his hands up her thighs with interest.

"You tell me."

He laughs under her and the vibration makes her laugh too; he takes advantage of her distraction to slide his hand higher and stroke the flimsy lace separating their bodies.

She arches her back, moving against his hand, and then curls down again to press her lips against his neck.

And then – she'll kick herself for this – she winces.

Just a little bit.

A fraction.

A hair.

But he stills his hand immediately.

"Addie … ."

"I'm fine," she insists.

"Listen, there are plenty of other things we can do."

"You make it sound so tempting," she scowls. "Derek – have I mentioned that the vagina is an extraordinary muscle?"

"You have, a few times." He sits up, bringing her with him, and she obliges by moving against him in a way that reminds him how many _other things_ they can do.

With some effort, he convinces her to take advantage of their time off to sleep a little longer, talks her into breakfast, and manages to kill a fair amount of time before she reminds him that patience is not her forte.

"We're waiting," he reminds her.

"Who are you and where is my husband?"

"I'm just saying. Give it a rest and you'll feel better later."

"I might dry up and die by then!" she snaps.

"I doubt it." He gives the lace at her hip a fond pat. "Look, why don't we go down to the gym and work off some of that … frustration?"

"Ugh, now I'm _definitely_ dried up." She swings her leg off him, making a face.

..

She relents and accompanies him to the gym – sorry, the _Health Spa_. Oddly, the concierge meets them there to inform them that men and women have to work out on opposite sides of the room.

"Is that even legal?" Addison whispers to Derek, who shrugs in return.

"Maybe they have some religious guests," he says.

But a few other guests join them periodically and they don't seem to be abiding by the rules.

Still, it's only polite, and culturally inclusive, to abide by the concierge's rule.

She's hoping at least to get a joint shower out of it. But she ends up alone in the vast – and okay fine, fabulous – women's changing rooms with a teak sauna and ten-spigot rain shower and fragrant Bateau products.

By the time she makes it back to the hotel room there's just enough time to get ready for their meeting with Weiss's lawyer-friend and head downtown.

..

"Do you remember meeting him?" Addison asks quietly while they're waiting for the elevator in the huge marble lobby of the skyscraper in the financial district. "Carter, I mean."

Derek shakes his head. "Weiss said he was at the wedding, but I just remember a lot of lawyers in suits … doing shots and hitting on bridesmaids."

"Oh, good." Addison brightens. "Sounds like he'll be predisposed to take our side."

"I think he has to take our side," Derek says. "It's his job."

"That too." She looks pleased.

Derek looks less pleased when the elevator lets them out in a sleek, modern, and bustling office floor. Windows everywhere show dazzling views of the harbor. A woman in a fitted suit and a fixed smile escorts them to a large conference room.

They wait, Addison tapping her heels a little nervously, until the door opens.

"Shepherds? Carter Black," the man who enters says brusquely.

Addison looks him over as discreetly as she can. He's tall and broad-shouldered and obviously confident. His suit is perfectly tailored to his body, his leather briefcase is butter-soft and looks like it was never flung down in a locker room for an emergency scrub change.

And he doesn't look particularly happy.

"You're Weiss's friend," Addison confirms tentatively.

"Law school buddies," Carter barks. "Good guy. Smart."

Derek is beginning to think that Carter avoids full sentences altogether. Then again, since he usually charges exorbitant fees by the hour, it's pretty nice of him to cut out unnecessary words.

Carter directs them without words to sit down; Addison and Derek takes seats in plush leather chairs on the same side of the wide glass table. Carter sits across from them, puts on a pair of sleek reading glasses, and pages through the red file folder he brought with him.

"So. Ferry sex." Carter looks at them over the top of his glasses. " _Nice_ ," he adds.

Addison's cheeks flush. "You make it sound so … dirty."

"Yeah. _I_ make it sound that way." Carter studies her for a moment. "No, you know what, I like it. I do. I see you in a sort of – librarian getup."

"Excuse me," Addison says, drawing up in her seat to her full height. Not that she's not a little flattered that their lawyer is apparently already fantasizing about her, but it's totally inappropriate in front of Derek. Then again, _librarian getup_ isn't the worst idea in the world. Maybe she and Derek can get dressed up and go check out the med library, where they once pulled out half the books on one of the taller shelves and after some creative positioning, managed to –

"Not like that." Carter frowns. "How we're going to dress you. For the hearing." He looks her up and down again. "We're going to work the prissy angle."

"The _what_?" Addison asks.

"Good. Make that face if you have to talk to the judge. You're offended and confused that anyone would level accusations like this against you."

"Um, okay."

"You have something conservative to wear?"

Addison looks down at her fitted cashmere sweater with its tasteful v-neck. "Isn't this conservative?"

Carter grimaces. "I'll have my paralegal call you," he says. "She'll take you shopping."

"I'm perfectly capable of shopping by myself."

"She is," Derek agrees., relieved to have the right answer for once – and a truthful one too.

"And you." Carter turns to him. "If this one is a maneater, and we're gonna show them she's really a buttoned up scholarly type … we'll need you to be … soft and gentle."

Addison coughs into her hand. Good thing Carter didn't see them the night they brought down the wall of their first hotel room. _Soft_ and _gentle_ aren't exactly the adjectives that come to mind.

"Does this mean we have to testify at the trial?" Addison asks nervously.

"It's not a trial," Carter barks.

"The – hearing," Addison amends.

"The judge will have questions for you." Carter looks from one of them to the other. "You have to make the right impression."

"Oh." Addison glances at her husband, suddenly a little nervous.

They're going to be fine – right?

"Do you think you can get us off?" Derek asks, as if he's thinking the same thing she is.

"It doesn't seem like the two of you need much help with that."

Addison grimaces.

"Sorry," Carter says, sounding unrepentant. "You've really made it a little too easy. Which is probably the issue here."

"Oh, it's fine," Addison says. "Take your time … really."

Carter ignores her, turning back to Derek. "You'll dress down," he says shortly. "Sweater, maybe a corduroy jacket with those – professor patches on the sleeves. And a bow tie. Soft and gentle."

"A bow tie?" Derek winces.

"You want to get these charges dropped or not?"

"Of course I want to get them dropped."

"Okay. So you'll do what I tell you. The two of you are going to be a nice, quiet, conservative couple with deep roots in Manhattan."

They nod.

"You need to be model citizens," he continues. "Decent. Committed. Grounded."

"That's us," Addison assures him.

Carter looks down at his notes. "Weiss said you moved away from the city. To … Seattle? What's that about?"

"Well, we've lived in Manhattan since medical school," Addison begins. "Sixteen years. More than that. We were educated here, we had internships, did our residencies here, both of us had thriving practices and served on all sorts of – "

"Had," Carter interrupts. " _Had_ thriving practices and then moved to Seattle."

Derek and Addison exchange a glance and say nothing.

"And now you're staying in New York again." Carter pauses. "Where are you staying?"

"At the V Hotel," Addison admits.

"The V." Carter frowns. "The one with the rooftop pool?"

"Yes – but we didn't bring bathing suits," Addison says quickly when his eyes widen.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Carter asks under his breath.

"We haven't been to the pool," Derek assures him. "And we don't plan to. We're going to – stay in the room."

"It has everything we need," Addison can't seem to help adding. "Excellent concierge service – well, a little judgmental, but still helpful – and ultra high-tech privacy windows – "

"Privacy windows. What are those?" Derek looks confused.

"The concierge told us about them when we were switching rooms," Addison reminds him.

"Why were you switching rooms?" Carter asks suspiciously.

"Do you really want to know?"

"No, I suppose I don't."

Addison smiles weakly, then turns back to Derek. "Privacy windows. They're some – ultra high tech Japanese invention. They completely opaque from the outside. No one can see in."

"They look like regular windows from the outside," Derek says, confused. "From the street. They don't look mirrored."

"They're supposed to. They're not two-way windows, Derek, it's not a police station! They're _ultra high tech._ "

"Fine," he retorts.

"So no one can see in," Addison finishes patiently. "And the hotel has room service …"

"I'm truly glad the hotel is to your liking," Carter says, not sounding very much like he means it. "I don't want to know why you switched rooms, but see that you don't switch hotels, please."

"Why not?" Derek asks.

Carter sighs. "You want to seem stable. Reliable. With deep roots in the city."

"We own a brownstone in the city," Addison says. "That's very stable."

"But you don't live in it."

" … well, not anymore. But we did live in it!"

"Great. I'll make sure to use _did live in a brownstone at some point_ in my opening statement."

"You said this wasn't a trial," Addison protests.

"It's a figure of speech." Carter sighs. "Fine, there must be something … stable about the two of you. Careers, at least."

"We're both respected surgeons," Addison says firmly. "Like I said, we went to medical school right here in the city, and, well … any records from the university are sealed," she adds very quickly under her breath.

"Excuse me?"

"She said we have a long record of living in the city," Derek says through gritted teeth, glaring at Addison.

"We have a home here," Addison adds. "Friends, practices … we had a life in Manhattan." She stops talking.

"Past tense." Carter takes off his glasses and starts polishing them. "You're using the past tense."

"Now we have a life in Seattle," she says quietly.

"That's not grounded," Carter says.

"Actually, Seattle is a really … grounded place," Derek says. "Spiritual, even. Calm, and – "

"Derek, he doesn't want to hear your meditations on the glory of the brook trout, he's talking about staying in one place."

"Maybe you should let him speak for himself, since it's your fault we're in this mess anyway," Derek snaps.

"My fault? How is it my fault?"

"Should I tell him?" Derek glares at Addison. "Or do you want to?"

"Oh, I'd love to tell him," Addison says, glaring back at him.

"Then tell him already," Carter intercedes, "keeping in mind _he_ charges by the hour."

"Okay." Addison takes a deep breath. "I, uh, I slept with Derek's best friend," she says in a small voice.

"I walked in on them," Derek adds. "In our bed."

"Don't say they were your favorite sheets," Addison warns, then turns to Carter. "They were the flannel sheets, and he hates the flannel sheets. He only agreed to buy the flannel sheets in the first place because of this thing we were going to do where we were pretending to be hikers lost in the woods – "

"Addison, do you mind?" Derek asks through gritted teeth.

"Sorry." She doesn't look very sorry.

"And it wasn't the hikers lost in the woods thing, anyway," he reminds her. "It was the other thing. The hikers lost in the woods thing was when we bought the smokeless logs."

"Oh." She considers this. "Really?"

"Really. The flannel sheets were the …" He lowers his voice. " _Boy Scout camp thing._ "

Her eyes widen. "You're right. You have such a good memory."

He looks flattered; Carter interrupts before she can compliment him again. "Let me just be clear. _You_ – " he points to Addison – "slept with _his_ –" – he points to Derek – "best friend, in your bed, on some kind of sexual fantasy roleplaying sheets I don't want to hear another word about. And then Derek moved to Seattle, and then you did too. Do I have it right?"

"Basically," Addison says, suddenly very interested in the catch on her bracelet.

"And this flannel bed … I assume it's in your nice, conservative brownstone?" Carter asks.

Slowly, Addison nods.

"Oh, great." Carter massages the bridge of his nose. "Nice, conservative reason to move across the country."

"It's more complicated than that," Addison attempts.

"Not really," Derek says.

Addison glares at him, then turns to Carter. "After Derek left New York, he picked up a twelve-year-old in a Seattle bar and slept with her!"

"What was a twelve-year-old doing in a bar?" Carter's eyes widen. "Just how _spiritual_ is Seattle, anyway?"

"She's not twelve," Derek snaps at Addison. He modulates his tone into something like deference when he turns to Carter. "I did … start a relationship in Seattle. With an adult," he adds hastily.

Addison snorts.

"Excuse me, she's a surgical intern." Derek glares at her.

"You're kind of making my point, honey," Addison says with a smirk.

Carter clears his throat, interrupting them. "This other woman – she lives in Seattle?"

Derek nods.

"And she's a legal adult?"

"Of course she is," Derek says, glaring at Addison.

" … she's over eighteen," Addison admits grudgingly.

Carter scratches his chin thoughtfully. "Okay, so this – best friend – and the twelve-year-old in Seattle – "

"She's not twelve!"

"Eighteen-year-old, whatever." Carter leans forward. "Those other people, outside the marriage, they're history now? The two of you have reconciled?"

"We're in the process of reconciling," Addison says primly.

"Because from what I saw in the police report, you looked pretty reconciled on that ferry."

"Yes, Addison is much easier to get along with when her clothes are off," Derek mutters.

"Our clothes weren't off on the ferry!" Addison says hastily, searching Carter's face to make sure he believes her.

"Not then, but all the other times," Derek concedes. At Carter's expression, he hastens to explain: "The point is, we're good citizens. We have no police record."

"No history of – public indecency?" Carter asks pointedly.

Addison and Derek exchange a glance.

"The fact that you're thinking about this doesn't bode too well, folks."

"We've never been arrested for it," Addison says hopefully.

"So you're saying there's no record of it."

"I certainly hope not," Addison says under her breath.

"What she means," Derek intercedes, "is that … we don't know if there's a record. That would really depend on the kind of records kept at the Museum of Natural History."

"And Yankee Stadium," Addison adds.

"And the Guggenheim," Derek says.

"The Guggenheim – really?" Addison looks confused.

"Yeah, remember the exhibition with the – " his hand swirls.

"Oh, _that_ one." She nods vigorously. "Yes. The Guggenheim."

Carter looks like he's reconsidering his agreement to represent them. "Are you finished?" he asks.

Derek and Addison exchange a glance.

"Well, institutionally speaking," Derek beings, and then his voice trails off.

"Oh, and there's Grand Central – which I suppose would technically be Port Authority, in terms of record keeping, _not_ in terms of the bus station," Addison clarifies quickly. "Even the two of us wouldn't do anything there." She shudders.

"So there _is_ a place the two of you wouldn't defile," Carter mutters. "What a relief to know you have some standards."

Addison huffs a little, but doesn't respond.

"Look," Carter says. "You have a week." He pushes back his chair. "A week before the hearing to make it seem like you can get through nine whole days from the first charge without any public indecency."

"We're on it," Derek says firmly. "Weiss made that very clear, and we've been sticking to all of his rules."

" _All of his rules_ ," Carter repeats Derek's words with more than a hint of derision. "I know I'm not a brain surgeon – I only graduated second in my class from Harvard Law, so I might be missing something. Forgive me. Is there some – complex nuance to _don't have sex in public_?"

"No, of course not," Addison says hurriedly.

"All right, then. So all you have to do is – " Carter clears his throat, sounding annoyed, and directs his next words to Addison: "You do know I can see under this table, correct? Because it's made of glass?"

"Of course I know," Addison says with dignity, moving her hand. And replacing it in her own lap. It's hardly her fault Carter said _brain surgeon_ , so it's not really fair to blame her.

Although a quick glance at Derek's stormy expression suggests he's blaming her anyway.

"Fine. I'm going to go get some forms for you to sign. Do you think you can keep it PG for five minutes? I'm leaving the door open, and there are surveillance cameras on the ceiling, but let me know if I need to get a security guard to babysit you."

"We'll be fine," Addison says tightly.

Derek pushes back his chair wordlessly and stalks to the windows, where he stares out at the view.

Addison approaches him with caution. "I'm sorry," she says when he doesn't turn around. "You know how I get when I hear the term – "

"I'm aware." He continues to look out the large windows, but he doesn't sound angry. Finally, he turns to face her. "I _might_ still have a similar reaction to the phrase …" he pauses, " _double board-certified._ "

"Oh!" She finds herself smiling. "Thank you, honey."

"Don't mention it," he says. His lips twitch like he's trying to hide a smile.

She slides in to stand next to him at the oversized windows.

"The views are spectacular," she says, taking in the sweeping expanse of New York Harbor. There's the Statue of Liberty … water all around, east and west, and there are bright yellow water taxis and even a bright orange –

Oh, no.

"It's the Staten Island Ferry," she whispers to Derek, feeling a little panicked.

But from his frozen expression, he's seen it too. When he turns to her, there's something in his eyes that's definitely not panic.

"Addison …"

His hands find her waist, pulling her closer.

She rests her head against his for a moment, breathing in the clean scent of him and focusing on staying chaste and –

"Do you think they have a roof?" she asks urgently.

"They're lawyers," Derek says, sounding disappointed, "so I'm going to guess no."

"They should let us go up there anyway," she pouts, one of her hands finding its way into his hair. "We're not litigious."

"You may not be litigious," a loud voice announces. They jump apart as Carter strides back into the room. "But that doesn't mean I'd trust you on the roof – or anywhere else."

"We weren't doing anything," Addison says immediately.

"The last time you _weren't doing anything_ , you ended up on sex probation," Carter says heartlessly. He shakes his head. "You want my advice?"

"Yes," Addison replies, only slightly grudgingly.

"Take the subway back to the hotel," he says. "That should knock some of that – randiness out of the two of you."

..

"He doesn't know us at all," Derek says as they stroll down the sidewalk.

"I guess we didn't mention the subway," Addison admits. She blinks a little, tipping her head back to take in the familiar shapes of the city she's missed. As they walk, a low sun wriggles its way out from behind a cloud.

Derek pauses automatically, just before Addison pulls him aside so she can get her sunglasses from her purse.

"At least it's nice out," he observes.

"Not nice enough," Addison says darkly, tucking her hand into his arm.

He nudges her a little with his shoulder. "Still sore about … being sore?"

"Very funny." She tosses her hair. "I'll have you know that I'm feeling better."

"You are?" He perks up immediately.

"I am."

"Does that mean … ?"

"You heard our lawyer." She grins at him. "Soft … and gentle."

"I can do that," he says. "I can be soft and gentle."

"I know you can, honey. I'm not worried about you." She leans into him while they wait on the corner for the light to change. "I _am_ a little worried about me."

"Because you're a convicted sex fiend?"

"I haven't been convicted! Did you listen to anything in that lawyer's office?"

"I tried." He rests a hand on her back as they cross the street. "But oddly enough, someone kept distracting me."

"Derek, how many times have I told you that crossing my legs isn't something I do to distract you?"

"A few," he admits. "But that doesn't mean I believe you."

"Trust is the cornerstone of marriage," she says haughtily. Then she pauses, waiting for him to snap at her, to remind her that she doesn't get to joke about _trust_ when she betrayed him.

But he doesn't. His voice is light and teasing when he responds.

"And I _trust_ that you don't need to cross your legs five hundred times during one meeting – not unless you're trying to distract me."

She tucks her hand into his arm again. "I don't have to _try_ to distract you," she murmurs.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're an egomaniac?"

"Yes. Has anyone ever told _you_ that it takes one to know one?" she asks.

"Has anyone ever – _Addison_ , would you please look where you're going?"

He pulls her back onto the curb as a yellow cab whizzes by.

"We had the right of way!" she argues, a little distracted because he's still holding onto her and the strength in his grip when he saved her from the enemy – er, from the cab – has left her feeling a little faint.

She finds one of her hands gliding over his arm – if a gladiator wore a sweater, he would probably –

"Addie?" He frowns down at her. "Take off your sunglasses," he orders.

"It's too sunny." She moves a little closer.

"Nice try." He reaches out and pushes the sunglasses away himself, propping them on top of her head. Which means he has a good view of her eyes …

… which make her intent all too clear.

"We _just_ left the lawyer's office, Addison!"

"I know," she whispers. "And, Derek – I _was_ crossing my legs on purpose."

"I knew it!" He returns her sunglasses to their proper place – no use getting yelled at for risking eye wrinkles – and with supreme self-control he disentangles their bodies and tucks her hand back into his arm almost … _almost_ … chastely. "Come on, Addie. Let's go back to the hotel where we can't get arrested."

"Fine," she sighs, sounding very put-upon, as only his wife can when she's denied satisfaction. She pauses. "Subway?"

"Not from this station," he says grimly. "It has the wall mosaic with the antique train, and you remember what happened at the Transit Museum."

"Oh, the Transit Museum. We forgot to mention that to Carter," she muses.

"You know … I think we can let that one slide."

..

"Ugh, I need a shower." Addison shudders a little once they're back in the hotel room.

He's not surprised. Add _subway_ to the long list of things Addison likes to rinse off directly afterwards, some of which are more fun than others. And apparently "jail" is part of it, as he's learned on this trip.

"Don't you know showering too much can dry out your skin?" he teases.

"I do know that. I'm pretty sure I told _you_ that, in fact."

"Ah. I knew I heard it from a reputable source." His expression changes when she moves closer. "Addie … ."

"Derek. We're in the hotel, remember?"

"Oh, that's right." His expression changes once more.

"And guess what?"

"What?" he asks, slightly apprehensive now.

"I'm feeling better. As in … a lot better."

His eyes widen and she swivels and strolls toward the bathroom.

Then she turns and gazes at him over her shoulder. "Are you coming or not?"

Apparently he is – which she supposes is why he practically trips on his way to catch up with her.

..

Under the pounding water of the shower, it's a little difficult to hear what Addison is whispering in his ear.

Difficult to make out the individual words, that is.

Not difficult to understand the gist of it, which is … a little filthy.

"Are you finished?" he asks when Addison pauses in the process of describing, in great detail, what she expects him to do to her now that she's allegedly healed.

"I don't know." She eyes him hungrily. "Am I?"

"You heard Carter. I'm supposed to be soft and …" he dips his head to press his lips lightly to her neck as steam rolls around them in the oversized shower. "And gentle," he says, moving to taste the skin on her shoulder.

She draws an audible breath. "So you'll do whatever he says?"

"He's a highly-paid professional," Derek reminds her, and she shudders a little under his gaze. He looks like he wants to … feast on her.

He doesn't look like he wants to be soft and gentle.

Thank goodness.

But she laughs a little when he pulls her in hard against him.

"What happened to listening to Carter?" she asks.

"Screw Carter." He slides his hands down her back to settle at her waist; she sighs a little as their bodies line up so neatly.

"I'd rather screw you," she says.

"That can be arranged."

 _Finally._

* * *

 **To be continued - do you think AddisonAndDerek are going to be able to follow their highly-nuanced rule? And what are the odds they'll be cooperative about their outfits for the hearing? But that's a week away - and there's a lot more to come before then. So to speak. ANYWAY, you know I love reviews like Derek and Addison love defiling publicly funded cultural institutions! (JK, they don't mean any harm. They're just shameless.) So thank you as always for reading, and I hope you'll review!**


	10. catch-22

**A/N: Here we are, a year after I wrote the first chapter on a plane, ten chapters in. It's Tuesday (Tipsy Tuesday? Teasing Tuesday? Trying Not to Get Arrested for Indecent Exposure Yet Again Tuesday?), but this chapter is ready to go and I wanted to post it anyway. Happy pre-humpday, all. I have a lot of irons in the fire story-wise and other-stuff-wise (yes, I do other stuff even when my wpm doesn't seem to allow for it). If your fave hasn't been updated in a few, never fear. I will get to it. But for now, I hope you enjoy the next chapter of Addek Takes Manhattan (and each other):**

* * *

 **Six Miles High, Part Ten  
 _Catch-22_**

* * *

She should have known.

She should have realized that _finally_ was too optimistic.

She should have remembered the paradox in which they've found themselves before: stretching out their … satisfaction is so satisfying in its own way that they somehow end up …

Needing more satisfaction.

She files this away to use in their defense, if necessary, and props both wet hands on her hips. She hopes she looks sufficiently intimidating considering the hot water streaming down around both of them in the oversized shower.

"Derek, I'm going to turn us both in to the police myself if you don't stop teasing me and – "

"Would you please try to be patient?"

"I've already been patient forever!"

"A day," Derek announces to no one in particular. "She's waited a day. And not very patiently, either."

"A very long day," she scowls.

He laughs a little and pulls her close. "You … are … insatiable," he says punctuating the space between the words with flicks of his fingers that make her weak at the knees. He just holds her up – his strength making her stomach even hollower with need – and laughs again when she tips her head back, groaning.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asks.

"If you recall," she says with dignity, "I already gave you several detailed suggestions."

"That's true, you did." He's enjoying the feel of her against him, her wet slippery skin sliding against his hands. "You also told me you were enjoying … abstinence."

"I did?"

"You did."

She looks so upset that he has to try to keep from laughing again.

Then she looks determined, and _then_ she's turning her back to him so he can feel every soft inch of her while one of her hands skates back to wrap around him. He draws sharp breath as she reminds him skillfully of how well she knows what he likes.

Heartened, she shifts meaningfully against him.

"Not yet," he says.

"Derek, please …."

"Not yet."

"Derek!"

She throws her head back in frustration; he pins her back against his chest, holding her firmly. "Are you ever going to learn to be patient?" he scolds.

And then, with one arm holding her up, he uses the other hand to remind her that her husband is anything but a one-trick pony.

When he's finished and she's boneless against him, practically purring once more, he kisses her wet shoulder and turns her around so he can look at her sleepy sated eyes. "No complaints?" he asks pointedly.

"No," she admits. She leans in and kisses him.

"Was that a thank you?" he asks, smiling.

"No," she says primly, "that was a kiss."

His eyes widen as she drops gracefully to her knees.

" _This_ is a thank you."

..

Their fingers are pruney by the time they leave the shower and Derek is fairly certain they're going to bring on another water shortage … but he would have to say it's worth it.

Even if it takes all the willpower he can summon to ignore Addison's obvious attempts to remind him that she's healed.

And no one ever accused her of being subtle.

She lolls naked on the bed while he forces himself to turn his back and order dinner. She makes a show of moisturizing her legs. She "accidentally" drops her comb in front of him while she's detangling her wet hair and then spends longer than necessary bent over picking it up.

"Give it a rest, Addie."

"Fine, I will!" She stomps to the bathroom for her robe. When she returns, her body is covered in white terrycloth – naturally, he can still picture every delicious inch underneath the robe, but it's better than nothing.

"Maybe practicing a little self-control isn't the worst thing in the world," he says mildly when he catches her pouting.

"Says the man who got us arrested on the Staten Island Ferry!"

She glares at him until their dinner arrives and then begins a production of huffily reorganizing both of their clothes in the oversized closets, shaking out each shirt and carefully smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of her skirts. He doesn't interfere, just watches her frustration growing.

It's dark outside, city lights twinkling through the oversized windows, when she finishes what he used to call her _rage-cleaning_.

He pours her a glass of champagne from the bottle that arrived with their dinner; she takes it grudgingly, downs half of it in one long sip, and then turns her head away, rebuffing his attempt to kiss her.

"That's how you're playing it?" he asks, taking the champagne glass from her hand and settling for kissing the side of her long neck.

"Maybe."

"Mm." He takes a step back, setting the champagne glass down on the low table and just looking at her.

"Oh, no," she says firmly.

"Oh, no, what?"

" _Oh, no_ , I know that look." She points a finger at him. "You wanted to wait, you can just … wait."

He reaches for her extended and they tussle playfully for a moment before she snatches back her hand and props it on her hip. "Don't try to get back in my good graces."

He opens his mouth to tell her that's not exactly where he was trying to _get in_ and then decides better of it.

She's glaring at him, her long hair dried in loose waves now.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "Because last time I checked, you were begging me to get back in your … good graces."

"Begging?" Her eyebrows shoot skyward. "Hardly."

"Fine," he says again. "I won't try to get in anywhere."

"Good," she snaps.

They regard each other for a moment. His gaze is caught on the delicate shape of her collarbones between the lapels of the hotel-issued robe. She sees him looking and tightens the bodice of the robe with a disapproving huff.

"I'm all clean," she reminds him, gesturing down her thick terrycloth robe she's wearing. "Don't even think about getting me all … dirty again."

"How would I get you dirty?" Derek asks innocently. "I'm not doing anything."

He's right, in a way – she can concede that – but he's also wrong.

He's not touching her with anything except his eyes, but the way his gaze slides down her body he might as well be using his tongue.

"You're the one who told me to have self-control," she reminds him. "So that's what I'm doing." With that, she turns toward the window, looking out at the view.

She senses him moving behind her.

And then coming closer.

His body is giving off so much heat at this point she can actually feel it through the terrycloth of her robe.

"What are you doing?" she asks unsteadily, still gazing out the window.

"Just … admiring the view," Derek says. He's so close now that his warm breath moves the air close to her ear, making her shiver.

She doesn't answer. Derek has that cat-after-the-mouse tone which admittedly usually turns out far better for her than the average mouse – well, both of them end up devoured, but Addison's fairly certain she enjoys Derek's devouring more than an actual mouse likes being eaten by a cat.

The point is – he's up to something.

"Derek. We're practicing self-control," she reminds him.

"We're practicing self-control," he agrees.

"Derek …"

"Addie, I'm not doing anything," he says.

But she feels warm pressure at her waist. His hands are resting on her hips.

"Actually, you're touching me."

" _Actually_ , I'm your husband," he reminds her.

"You're also my co-defendant."

"In the least sexual way possible," he assures her.

Okay, but it's Derek and she's Addison, so _the least sexual way possible_ doesn't mean much, but fine.

"Can't I enjoy a nice view with my wife?" Derek asks innocently.

She thinks it's probably a good thing he didn't ask Weiss that question. But she decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. She can always throw it in his face next time he accuses her of assuming the worst of him.

"Fine, I guess you can." She turns to face the window again. "It _is_ a nice view. Look, honey, just past the lights of the – Derek!"

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "I was just moving your hair so I could hear you better."

"You hear with _your_ ears, Derek, not mine," she reminds him, as his hands traces gently along hers.

"Right. I always get that one wrong." His lips are very close to her ear now, brushing along the sensitive skin at her neck."

"Derek …"

He points toward the window.

"Just keep giving me the tour," he says. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

She starts to tell him again where to look – but again his lips are brushing against the skin of her neck, making her shiver.

And then again.

"I'm not taking off my robe," she warns him.

"That's okay." He runs his hands along the warm terrycloth and into the front pockets of the robe, using his grip to tease the sensitive skin of her thighs with the terrycloth fabric.

"It is?" she asks doubtfully.

"Sure," he says. "You don't have to take off your robe."

She nods with satisfaction, returning to the view.

There's a whistle of air and a tug on the sash and then the robe is at her ankles.

"Derek!"

"You didn't say _I_ couldn't take off your robe," he reminds her.

"That was low."

"I'll make it up to you." He pulls her in hard; she melts against him in spite of herself. "Feels like maybe you're not so mad anymore," he observes.

"I'm mad," she mutters into his neck, gasping as he slides a warm hand up her bare side.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Then let's see if I can get you to forgive me," Derek says. And she feels the cold glass of the window brushing against the back of her and squeaks with surprise. "Derek!"

"Ultra high-tech privacy windows," he reminds her. "Isn't that what you said?"

"I did. The concierge said it first. _While_ s looking at us very judgmentally, I might add."

"The nerve," Derek says, turning her around by her bare shoulders and admiring the long naked expanse of her back. "They don't know us at all."

She finds herself facing the windows – thick cold glass, double paned … sturdy. Her stomach flips a little.

Meanwhile, he's running a hand up the inside of her thigh, her legs clamping together around his fingers. "Don't break them," he warns her.

"No promises."

"What happened to soft and gentle?" he teases.

"You're the one who's supposed to be soft and gentle," she reminds him. "I'm supposed to be – I'm supposed to be – damn it, you know I can't remember like this!"

It's not her fault.

His fingers are doing that _thing_ that always leaves her breathless. She has nothing to hold her up but the window so she finds herself pressed against the cold glass. "Ah!"

"What's wrong?"

"It's cold," she pouts.

"Yeah?" He turns her around, looking greedily at some of his favorite parts of her. "Yeah, looks like it is."

"Very funny." He nips at her neck; she pushes at his head and he backs her into the window so that she shrieks again when the floor-to-ceiling cold glass makes contact with the back side of her.

"Fine, I guess I'll have to warm you up," he sighs, and then his warm lips are moving on her, all over her, merciless on the flesh the window left chilled.

Her head falls back against the glass; he pulls her forward gently. "Careful," he says.

Which is rich considering it's his fault, but she'll just add it to the list.

"You're not cold everywhere," he observes with interest, his fingers finding their way inside her again, warm velvet suction that as always threatens to kill him.

She shivers at his touch. "Derek …"

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

"No complaints?" He twists his fingers, making her gasp. "Addison Shepherd doesn't have a single bit of advice? A way I can do better? … a few helpful tips?"

"Oh, shut up," she says, yelping when he pinches her thigh in response. "Ow!"

"Be nice," he warns.

" _You_ be nice."

"I'm very nice," he informs her, and then his lips are on hers, his breaths are hers and she's drowning in him while his fingers – his talented fingers that know her far too fucking well – bring her so close to the brink that she's positive there's no going back, she's going to –

"Derek!"

"What?" he asks, with that innocent tone again. "Wasn't that … nice?"

Is he _whistling_?

She glares at him, her body still humming where he was touching her until he apparently decided to torment her instead.

"Orgasm denial is against the Geneva Conventions," she says.

Derek frowns. "That can't be true."

"It's a form of torture," she says.

"It's not a – " Derek stops talking. "Fine," he says.

"Fine, what?" She sounds suspicious … because she is.

"We got legal advice – very expensive legal advice – to be soft and gentle," Derek reminds her. "So that's what I'm going to be. No more torture."

Addison scowls. _Soft and gentle_ is all well and good when it's that kind of day – or night. But starting to work her into a frenzy and then suddenly switching to the lightest of butterfly caresses – that's just not fair.

Time to give him some of his own … brain medicine.

"Fine. I can be soft and gentle, too," she reminds him, and then he's the one gasping because she's pressed the flat of her palm to the window long enough that it's chilled cold when it brushes against his heated flesh.

"Fair's fair," she says, grinning at his expression.

"Not everything is a competition, you know," he counters.

"True." She pauses. "But if we were competing now, I'd win."

"How is that _not a competition_?"

"I don't know. It just is."

"You mean it just isn't," he corrects.

"Derek?"

"Hm?"

"Stop talking."

He actually does.

She stops talking too, finding something better to do with her mouth instead.

Derek's the one against the window now, and the contrast between the cold glass – how it's not steamed up already he has no idea, it's just staying cold like _ultra high tech_ magic – and Addison's warm, soft mouth and the things she's doing with her – okay, there's no way he'll last more than a second.

He remembers that Addison has this way of making him feel twenty-two again in some of the best _and_ worst ways, and he finds himself having to resort to the techniques of his youth to keep from ending their evening before he has a chance to get his dues.

Swiftly, he tries to think of something that's not sexy.

Anything surgical is out obviously.

His muscles throb.

There has to be something he can use. The subway … and he tries to conjure up an image of rats scurrying between filthy sputtering tracks, like he saw at the station earlier, but then he's distracted by the recollection of Addison's hand sliding into his back pocket while they stared down at those very tracks.

 _Damn it._

He's just about to give up and give in when Addison just – stops.

"Hey!" he can't help protesting, missing the marvelous warmth of her the moment she pulls back.

She raises her eyebrows.

"Fair's fair, like I said," she tells him primly.

Derek raises his eyebrows in return. "I guess we're at a standstill then."

Addison rises to her feet with as much grace as she can manage while trying to keep her gaze away from his straining flesh.

Truthfully, there's an ache inside her where she's been waiting and waiting for him to fill her but if this is a competition – even if they're _not_ competing – well, she's not going to give in.

"Yeah, I guess we are," Addison says. "I wouldn't want to be too _not soft_ or _not gentle_."

Derek shakes his head.

"Plus, we're on … what did Weiss call it … sex probation?"

"But you do know we're allowed to have sex in the privacy of our hotel room," Derek reminds her. "We're not in prison."

"Not yet, you mean."

"So we could keep going."

"We could …"

Addison stares at Derek.

Derek stares at Addison.

"Are we playing … sex chicken?" he asks finally.

"That's ridiculous," Addison says, as if they've never done this before.

"Then you _don't_ mind if we stop."

With some effort, Addison both modulates her voice and drags her eyes away from the incontrovertible evidence of his arousal. "I don't mind if you don't mind," she says, clearing her throat a little.

"I don't mind if _you_ don't mind," Derek counters.

Addison exhales heavily.

Sex chicken is all well and good and she's never been one to turn away from a power struggle, but she's not getting any younger – they came here for Derek's birthday, and at this rate … it's going to be her birthday before they come.

She's been waiting forever and a day – okay fine, just a day, but it feels like forever – to feel him inside her.

And she's not exactly the best at being patient.

So she spreads herself pointedly along the window pane and arches her back. "The thing is, I can last longer than you can, Derek, if you recall. I'm fairly certain we both know that. Or did you forget the night with the – "

Whatever she was going to say is lost to the pages of time when she finds herself whirled around and pressed up against the cold glass of the window. She feels every chilled bit of it down the front of her body now, gasping as her breasts are flattened against the glass, her hips straining against the cold surface.

At least he can't see the smile spreading across her face.

He's too busy touching her everywhere at once, the pressure of his body against hers leaving her hungry for more; she pushes backwards for more contact and he presses her back so she's gasping a circle of steam onto cold glass.

"Derek, don't break the window," she whispers nervously.

" _Ultra high-tech_ ," he reminds her. His palm slaps the glass as if testing its strength. "Plus, double panes."

He's right; the window gives way to a space and a _second_ sheet of ultra high tech glass.

"I just don't want to fall out of … either one of them," she admits.

"Not a chance," he growls into her ear. "I'd have to let go of you for that."

The pulse between her legs throbs at his tone and his words; she forgets the fear of falling and then his body is surrounding hers.

Warm where she's chilled.

Hard and unyielding where she's soft and melting.

She's trapped intractably, deliciously, between the window and his insistent pressure of his body.

His lips on the back of her neck are going to leave marks, his teeth, but it feels too good for her to complain and if she wanted to she's not sure she could form words anyway.

She's pinned to the window; desperate to feel him, to touch him, she reaches around her own back, but he just takes her hands in his and presses them flat against the window pane once more.

"I suggest you hold on," he says, and she shudders as his hands return to her body, sliding down the curve of her waist, running over her hipbones and touching her almost everywhere except where she's desperate for his touch.

She rocks her own hips as cold compromise, wondering if she can find the friction she needs against the chilled slippery glass – she can't, but his laugh against her ear makes a shudder run through her whole body anyway.

"Derek …"

He's hard against her, practically straining to get inside her – for a moment she almost laughs, maybe Derek wants to deny her but it seems like a part of him might just break off from its master and drive its way home anyway.

"Derek, _please_."

"So polite." His hips crowd hers into the window. "One of your many positive qualities."

"I'm not going to be so polite if you don't stop teasing me."

"Bossiness," Derek announces pleasantly. "Another quality of yours."

Suddenly, his fingers are inside her again and she's gasping, trying to bear down on them as he moves nimbly away from her begging flesh.

"Is that a positive quality or a negative one?" she asks him, gasping a little for breath.

"Depends on who you're asking," Derek replies.

"I'm asking you," Addison says.

"I must not be doing my job if you're talking this much."

"Derek – "

And then she can't talk anymore, because he's lifted one of her legs and she can't even worry she'll pitch through the window because he's driving the whole length of him home – _finally_ – and she's warmed up from earlier and she's been dying to feel him inside her, but still gasps at the sensation of being so deeply filled.

He stops moving. "Addie, you okay?" he asks gruffly against her ear.

"I'm fine. I swear. And I'll _kill_ you if you stop," she adds fiercely.

"Another positive quality." He kisses the back of her neck, waiting for her breathing to regulate a little more. "Addison …"

"Hm?"

"I meant it before. Hold on."

His tone sends a little shiver down her spine. Obediently, she leaves both palms flat against the glass, not sure that counts as "hold on" but Derek is apparently certain of their safety – certain enough for both of them because his hips are moving against hers with enough power she's surprised they're not both flung clear out into Washington Square Park at this point.

That would be incredibly difficult to explain to Carter … and Weiss … and the police … and the judge, eventually, so she crosses her fingers doubly that they'll manage to stay inside the hotel room.

Then she's not thinking at all because the rhythm of his hips is threatening to destroy her.

 _How_ did she survive so long without this?

"It was one day," Derek murmurs in her ear and she feels her face flushing.

Did she say it out loud?

Whatever. It felt like longer. Which she thinks is because –

No, forget it, she can't think right now.

She can't do anything right now.

Except thank any god who's listening for _ultra high-tech_ privacy windows.

She can only imagine what they would look like from the other side, if the buildings across the street could see them lit up in the hotel room: her naked body pressed flat against the glass, clinging with two desperate hands while the bottom half of her is dragged back insistently against Derek's. Over and over until she's drowning: he thrusts his hips against hers, and she pulls forward, toward the glass, and the heel of his hand catches her, dragging her back against him and grinding the perfect amount of pressure against the focal point that's crying out for attention.

She'd say his name if she could speak – to say what, she's not sure. _Please? More?_

But the pressure is building until she's certain she can't take it anymore, that he must be exhausted, she can feel the dampness of their rutting bodies. Her heartbeat is pounding in her ears along with a whiff of fear that spikes her excitement: one of them is going to slip, they're both going to slip, Derek is going to exhaust himself from what he's doing, except she wants more, _more_ so she's thrusting her hips backwards at the same time he's driving her forwards.

 _Please_.

Derek moves his other hand to grip one of her hips, bracing her, and the change in pressure drives her over the edge. She hears herself scream and goes boneless, giving way completely to his support until a few moments, later with one final thrust into the window, all movement ceases and he collapses with her against the fogged-up glass.

"Oh, my god."

She's pretty sure she said that out loud.

She's a little surprised she can still speak.

She leans back against him, letting him hold her up, and he brings them both to the ground with a surprising amount of grace for someone who just endured the workout he did.

"Derek." She's trying to catch her breath.

"Addison," he says, his tone a little teasing. He's out of breath too, his damp chest rising and falling rapidly under her cheek. She likes hearing his heartbeat – it's pounding out the rhythm of what he did to her and a little shiver runs through her.

"Derek," she says again. "That was …" her voice trails off, exhausted.

"Soft and gentle?" he teases, and his voice _is_ actually soft now, his fingers gentle as they travel down her sides, making her shiver.

"Um … not quite," she says. "Not that I'm complaining."

For a few minutes they just lie naked on the floor, catching their breath.

"Want to go again?" Derek asks.

Addison stares at him in horror and he laughs at her expression. "I'm kidding," he says. "I mean, maybe once we shower, take a break – "

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Addison says quickly.

"We're Derek and Addison," he reminds her. "We don't get ahead of ourselves."

"We're Addison and Derek," she corrects him. "And we need a shower."

He can't argue with that.

..

Once they can stand on shaking legs they find their way to the oversized marble bathroom and let the pounding jets of water revive them.

Addison is pretty sure she's going to fall asleep on her feet. She's so sated she's barely conscious, Derek doing most of the work holding her up. For his part he's massaging fragrant shampoo into her long hair and enjoying the warm sleepy weight of her against him. There's something so _satisfying_ about leaving her like this. Not that he's not sated himself, but the catch-22 he's learned over the last sixteen years, trapping him inescapably in the cycle, is this: satisfying his wife can be so … satisfying, to him, that it actually leaves him wanting _more_.

And sure enough, the faintest twitch of life …

"Seriously?" Addison looks up at him with wide eyes, long wet hair plastered to her face.

"Sorry."

Her smile turns mischievous. "I'm not."

"Addie, hang on." He shuffles her back to her feet and pushes her back under the spray, helping her rinse out the last of the shampoo. "You're pretty much asleep," he reminds her.

"You're not," she says wickedly.

"Fine. Let's get out and get in bed, at least – "

"We're in the hotel room," she reminds him, sounding more awake now. "That's not against the rules."

"True."

He's still holding her but she's supporting more of her own weight now, which means the long length of her is pressed up against him and it's not his fault they just fit together so well. Lightly, experimentally, he rocks against her and she moans into his mouth.

One of his hands is running up the inside of her thigh while she presses her lips to his shoulder and then he stops, abruptly.

"I'm too tired for teasing," she protests.

"I'm not teasing this time. We actually need to take it easy."

"Why?"

"So we don't end up on another 24-hour hiatus," he reminds her.

"Oh." She swipes wet hair out of her eyes. "I guess you have a point."

"I know I do." He shuts off the water and hands her a towel; they make their way out of the steamy bathroom into the large bedroom and just barely make it to the bed before they collapse side by side.

Addison turns to look at him, her eyes huge again in the glow of the lights.

He needs her again. Except then he might have to wait longer to have her again.

 _Catch-22, catch-22._

Decisions.

He's a doctor. He's a problem-solver. It's going to be fine.

"Don't move," he orders her.

She smiles up at him but doesn't protest.

He grabs one of the towels to pad the floor and slides to his knees at the side of the bed.

Taking one of her legs in each of his hands, he maps the shape of one calf muscle and then the other with his lips, holding her firmly when her muscles jump under his mouth. She's so sensitive it's going to kill him – or her – or both of them one of these days.

Meanwhile, she's staring at the ceiling, trying her best to _don't move_ when all her hands want to do is grab fistfuls of his curls and yank. Except yanking out that hair is a crime. It's a catch-22, really.

Her fingers grasp clawlike at the duvet instead, coming up with nothing. She's aching for more as he moves with agonizing slowness up the length of her legs. He has to muscle her down to get access to the inside of her thighs but when he does the soft kisses he leaves on her skin are worth it.

He pauses for a moment to admire her: she's gripping the bedclothes in both her hands, a valiant attempt not to grab at his hair and one he appreciates even though he's never too upset at any indication he's driving her wild. There's a rosy flush in her cheeks that extends down to the top of her chest, and her staggered breathing just calls attention to the glorious shape of her. He strokes one thigh lightly with one hand and sees her stomach muscles tremble in response.

She's drawn tight as a bow and he would take pity on her, but she's as strong as she is worked up so it takes no small amount of effort to separate her thighs enough that he can taste her.

Finally, he draws her long legs over his shoulders and brings both arms to bear and then she can't seem to keep from gripping his hair hard enough for his eyes to water.

It's worth it, though, as he alternates the legally sanctioned _soft and gentle_ with something else entirely until her pleas turn incoherent and she's no longer bothering to muffle the sounds escaping her mouth and then she's shuddering against _his_ mouth with something that could only be called a shriek.

Pleased with himself, he turns his head to plant a kiss on the rosy surface of each thigh before he lifts her legs carefully down from his shoulders and moves up the bed.

Addison's head is lolling against the white duvet, her face flushed pink, damp tendrils of hair stuck to her cheeks. He moves them away and kisses the side of her face.

"That was amazing," she says.

"See? Staying in the room isn't so bad."

"I never said it was."

He pulls her fully onto the bed with him and draws her into his arms, enjoying the way her panting breaths feel against him as she settles down. He runs his hand down the curve of her back, giving one cheek an affectionate squeeze. She sighs a little and burrows into him.

It's peaceful.

Calm.

 _Soft and gentle_ isn't so terrible, he decides, as he runs his fingers lightly up and down her arm and feels her boneless weight getting heavier as she traipses toward sleep.

Suddenly, they're startled by a knock on the door that's neither soft, nor gentle.

"Derek?" She sits up, looking confused.

There it is again. And again.

"Doctor and Doctor Shepherd! Please open the door!"

"Now what do they want?" Derek sighs a little, and then offers Addison a hand out of bed before tossing her her discarded robe.

The open door reveals the concierge, looking his usual combination of dutiful, suspicious, and underwhelmed. "May I come in?" he asks.

"Apparently you insist on it," Addison says under her breath, but she gestures for him to enter the room.

"Thank you, madam. I am here to – well. I would like to move you to a different room."

Derek, who managed to drag on pajama pants before they opened the door, is almost positive the concierge cringes a little as he says it.

"This room is fine," Addison says with dignity, aware that her hair is a massive snarl … and still rather sweaty too.

"Yes. Well." The concierge clears his throat. "I – the hotel – would like to … upgrade you."

"This room is fine."

"… to a suite with our new ultra high-tech privacy windows," the concierge continues.

Addison stares.

Derek stares.

They both turn to look at the floor to ceiling windows, where imprints of their bodies are still faintly visible.

Then Addison turns on the concierge in disbelief. "But – but you said this room had – when we were talking, you said it had privacy windows – "

"No, madame, I'm afraid you are mistaken. I said that _some_ rooms in the hotel have ultra high-tech privacy windows. The rollout is happening floor by floor, and unfortunately this floor has not yet been upgraded."

"Addison!" Derek hisses, horrified. "You said he – "

"What do you expect?" she snaps, annoyed with his expression. "You remember how crazy I was that night, you had just tied me to – "

Abruptly, she stops talking and clears her throat, turning back to the concierge. "So just to be clear, you're saying these windows are – "

"Just regular windows, yes, madame."

"And the building across the street – "

"Is in fact occupied, yes, madame."

"Well, then," Addison says with dignity. "I suppose we would be amenable to moving to a suite."

..

"Well, we're facing the other side of the building now," Addison muses as she stands at the large windows of their new bedroom.

"I guess they weren't taking any chances this time." Derek joins her at the window and then briskly closes the curtains.

"Hey – that's a nice view."

"I know." He raises an eyebrow. "But it's probably best if we don't take any chances this time either."

Fair enough. She sighs a little, leaning against him. "Remember the windows in the brownstone? No one called to complain about us there."

"Well, they faced the garden."

"I miss the garden." Addison glances up at him, wondering if he'll look annoyed like he sometimes does when she mentions their old life. He just looks pensive, though. Tentatively, she continues. "Someone else should enjoy the garden if we can't."

Derek remembers what she mentioned in Nancy's building the previous night about someone working on the brownstone.

"I have a company," Addison says quietly, as if she heard this thoughts. "I hired a … company, Savvy recommended this woman actually, to get the brownstone ready for viewing."

"Ready – what does that mean?" Derek asks.

"You know, show-ready. Clean – "

"It's always clean."

"Well-decorated."

"It's always well-decorated."

"Free from personal effects," she pronounces with a little chagrin.

"Ah." He considers this. "What is she going to do with our – personal effects?"

They have a lot of personal effects.

Eleven years of marriage, six years of which were spent in that brownstone – there are photographs and record collections and shelves and shelves of books. Bits and fragments of memories like the Tuscan coffee table book from their anniversary trip and the little boat-in-a-bottle Derek and his father made together when he was ten. The deep blue bowls Addison selected for him in Greece because they were his favorite color. The little china shepherdess handed down from her great-grandmother. They laughed over that one, joking that even generations back, her great-grandmother must have known that Addison would one day become a Shepherd … ess.

And somewhere – is a single dark curl in an envelope from Derek's first haircut. Addison bellowed with laughter when she first found that, then turned all misty-eyed and refused to let him throw it out.

"We could … go back there," she says tentatively. "I mean, if you want to. You know, visit."

Derek considers it. The last thing he wants to do is open up an old wound. It's been – different, since they came back to New York.

"Do you want to go back there?" he asks after a moment.

"Kind of," she says. "Just to, you know, see if there's anything we want to bring with us. Check on the place."

She thinks about what Savvy said when they went to Sunday brunch at their apartment – that she wasn't surprised that Addison and Derek started fighting when they found themselves surrounded by the memory-inducing walls and shelves and decorations at Savvy's house.

But they made it through dinner at Nancy's with its museum-level walls of photograph, its exhibition of Shepherd history – well, mostly they made it. So maybe they're not that bad.

"I miss having a house," she says quietly, and he finds himself a little annoyed now. Whose fault is it they don't have a house anymore? "The trailer doesn't count," she adds.

"My trailer is great. It's a great trailer."

She doesn't miss that he says _my_ trailer. "I hate the trailer."

Derek rolls his eyes. "So we're back to this?"

"It's not _back_. I never liked the trailer."

"And yet you insisted on moving into the trailer."

"I didn't insist on moving in to the trailer," she protests.

"That must have been my other wife."

"Derek." She shakes her head. "I didn't insist on moving into the trailer. I insisted on moving in with you. And you insisted on living in the trailer."

He doesn't respond.

"Forget it," she sighs. "We don't have to go back to the brownstone. Savvy's woman will do a good job. I'm sure she knows how to treat a vintage record collection – "

"Oh, would you just – " He rubs a frustrated hand through his hair. "You are so passive-aggressive. In every zip code."

"Well … it's part of my charm?" Her tone is hesitant.

"Just – one step at a time, Addie. Okay? We don't have to rush everything. We're stuck here another week. Can you just be patient?"

She opens her mouth to respond.

"Don't answer. I know _impatience_ is part of your charm." Derek sighs a little. "I'm not saying we can never go back to the brownstone. But let's just … figure it out another day."

Addison considers this. Derek punting a sensitive issue is hardly a new aspect of his personality … or their marriage. _We'll talk about it later. Everything's fine._

But she gets the sense she's pushed him enough tonight and slowly, she nods.

"Thank you." He kisses her briefly, chastely, maybe with a little gratitude.

That's all he intends – sealing their deal.

It's not his fault her lips are so soft – and warm – or that when he threads his hand into her hair he finds it still wildly tangled from their previous activities. It's certainly not his fault that the rush of memory of just how her hair got so messy sends a shockwave of excitement straight through him. They may be fully dressed now, for their walk to the new suite, but that doesn't mean he doesn't remember exactly what she felt like before.

He's only human.

And it's certainly not his fault that her skin is so smooth, molding into his hands, or that –

A loud knock interrupts them.

"Seriously?" Addison pulls away, looking irritated and a little disheveled again.

"It's just the bellboy with our luggage," Derek says.

"Oh, right." Addison pauses. "Do I look okay?" she asks doubtfully.

Derek studies her for a moment. He reaches up to smooth down her hair, then thinks better of it. They don't have time for that.

"Maybe you should rehook your bra," he suggests tactfully.

Addison glares. "Maybe _you_ should put a pillow in your lap."

It's his turn to glare, but she's not wrong, so he hastily settles in the armchair as discreetly as possible while Addison opens the door.

It's in fact the bellboy – two of them, with a large rolling cart and all their bags. Addison never travels anywhere without a full wardrobe.

And it's also the concierge.

"Madame," he says to Addison in greeting. His gaze falls rather disapprovingly on Derek, who is attempting a choir-boy-esque expression from his position on the armchair. "Monsieur," the concierge adds grudgingly.

"Now what?" Addison says. "I mean – what can we do for you?"

The concierge wrings his hands. "Madame – this is most … difficult … ."

"What is?"

"It is terrible. A terrible situation."

Addison looks nervously at Derek.

"Unfortunately," the concierge continues, his tone mournfully grave, "it seems that the hotel … has been overbooked."

Addison's eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

"I am afraid that after tonight we will no longer be able to accommodate you as our guests." The concierge flushes visibly. "Your original stay was only for the weekend … ." His voice trails off.

"Yes, but we spoke after we got arr – I mean, after our plans changed – and we were assured there would be a room for us until our cour – I mean, until the end of our visit. A week from today," Addison says, exchanging another nervous glance with Derek.

In her head is their lawyer's stern advice to be _reliable_ and _stable_ and _whatever you do don't switch hotels._

"Yes. I am afraid that whoever you spoke with must have been mistaken," the concierge says gravely.

"I spoke with _you_ ," Addison reminds him.

"Ah. Yes. Well. My memory is fading, I suppose. Old age reaches us all one day. Our energy … reduces." He looks between Derek and Addison. "Please accept my sincerest apologies. We can extend your checkout time to make this easier," he offers hopefully. "Perhaps – noon tomorrow?"

"Can you extend our checkout time until next Tuesday?" Addison snaps. "If not, don't bother."

The concierge shifts on his feet nervously. "I'm _terribly_ sorry," he says once more. "Have a good night."

"Well, that's not very likely now!" Addison calls angrily after him as the door closes on his uniformed back. She turns to Derek, her expression anxious. "What are we going to do?"

"Find another hotel," Derek suggests. "It's Manhattan. There's a wealth to choose from."

"Carter said not to switch hotels. He said it would look unstable to the judge or – whatever."

"Then we can stay with one of my sisters," Derek suggests.

Addison shakes her head. "Couch-surfing at our age isn't stable, Derek. Carter will say we seem like vagrants. Plus, Kathleen will make us sleep in separate bedrooms."

"True." Derek nods slowly. "Savvy and Weiss?"

"Vagrants," Addison repeats. "Plus after what happened last time … ."

"Right."

Addison draws a deep breath. "We do have another option."

"Which is … ?"

"Staying somewhere else that still makes us seem stable and grounded and salt-of-the-whatever."

Derek nods, indicating she should go on.

"As in someplace we already own."

His eyebrows shoot up. "You mean the brownstone."

"I mean the brownstone – Derek, wait," she says at his expression. "We already own it, and living in it – I mean staying in it – will be good for highlighting our deep roots in the city."

"What about Savvy's woman who's getting it ready for the renters?"

"I'll just let her know that we'll be there for a week. She can finish prepping it after we go back to Seattle."

Derek looks torn.

"We can sleep in one of the guest rooms, if you'd rather," Addison adds, looking a little guilty. "And you can – visit your record collection. I know you miss it."

She can't seem to resist teasing him, but it grates.

"This would never have happened if you hadn't misheard him about the ultra-high tech privacy windows," Derek snaps.

"You're the one who – un-privacy'd them!" she snaps back, outraged now. "I wasn't exactly shoving _myself_ into the window, you know."

"I didn't hear you complaining."

"No, that was just the neighbors," she retorts.

They both pause.

"You're the one who wanted to come to New York," he says after a moment.

"Really?" Her eyes widen. "Are you going to blame me for our getting arrested again?"

"Again? I never stopped."

"Derek!" She props her hands on her hips. "We have to stay on the same side here. We're – "

"Married, oh, I'm _aware_ ," he mutters.

"I was going to say we're co-defendants." Her tone is a little hurt.

"Oh. That too."

"And _as_ co-defendants," she says with dignity, "we need to look out for each other. And stay somewhere … stable."

"Fine," he sighs. "We can stay in the brownstone."

Addison gives him a quick, impulsive hug, heroically keeping her distance from any potentially illegal portions of his body.

..

 _Dear Carter,_

 _It was lovely meeting you today. Your advice was most helpful, and we can assure you that all of our clothes stayed on with the exception of our hotel room._

 _On another, unrelated, note, we have decided for normal reasons to vacate the V Hotel in the morning and relocate to our brownstone, which as you recall we purchased and still own in a settled and grounded fashion._

"You're laying it on a little thick," Derek says, reading over her shoulder.

"You think?" Addison purses her lips as she types the address of the brownstone.

 _Just in case you need to reach us. Thank you again for your help._

 _Regards_ ,  
 _Addison and Derek Shepherd_

"May I?" Derek holds out his hand for the blackberry and she passes it to him.

"Don't write anything weird," she warns him. "I think Carter might be onto us."

When he passes the blackberry back to her she sees he's made only one change.

 _Regards,  
Derek and Addison Shepherd_

"Seriously?" she asks him. "You're so petty."

"It's part of my charm," he reminds her.

She's going to protest but the blackberry is slipping out of her fingers as he trails his lips over her collarbone.

Eh, she'll let this one go.

If they only have one more night in the V, they might as well make it count.

After all, she can always think about it tomorrow … at the brownstone.

She's not thinking about much of anything when the sudden vibration of her blackberry startles her. "Hang on, let me – Derek," she scolds, when he drags her back and resumes distracting her. "It could be important."

He releases her with a resigned sigh.

"How dare he?"

At her outraged tone, Derek sits up too. "How dare who?"

"Carter," she says. "Listen to this:

 _Dear Addison and Derek,_

 _If Weiss weren't my good buddy, I'd resign as your counsel tonight._

 _PS Close your darn curtains next time._

"He said _darn_?" Derek asks, surprised.

"Well … no," Addison admits. "But he really should have. It's so vulgar to use language like that."

"You're right," Derek says. "Carter _is_ vulgar."

"And how did he even – "

"I'm sure it's a lucky guess," Addison says. She pauses. "You don't think the hotel called him, do you?"

"No. Don't we have – privilege?"

"Hotel-Person Staying There Privilege?" Addison tilts her head. "I don't think that's a thing."

"Well, it should be a thing," Derek says.

There's a pause while they both consider the email.

Derek speaks first: "It was nice of Weiss to get Carter to represent us. We should probably – consider taking his advice."

"He has gotten people _much_ worse than us off," Addison says. The convoluted nature of the sentence gives her pause for a moment. "The point is … I guess he has a point."

Derek turns to face the oversized windows in their new bedroom. "We did draw the curtains this time," he reminds her.

"We did."

"So we might as well take advantage of it."

"Sometimes … I love the way you think," Addison says with a grin, pouncing on him and laughing when he rolls them both over on the fluffy duvet.

He draws her arms over her head and scatters light kisses over the sensitive skin of her neck and shoulders while she writhes underneath him. "Only sometimes?" he asks, pausing.

"For now," Addison says primly. "But we do have another week in New York for you to try to convince me."

He considers this. _Convincing_ Addison can be difficult … but it can also be a lot of fun.

And exhausting.

And occasionally criminal.

But the point is …

"Challenge accepted," he says firmly.

She wriggles under him until he lets her up, rolling agreeably onto his back so she can climb on top of him. Straddling him victoriously, she smiles down at him. "I knew you'd say that."

"Are you calling me predictable?"

"Basically."

"Excuse me?" His hands are resting on her hips, but he ignores her attempt to distract him. "I am not predictable."

"I knew you were going to say _that_ too," Addison says triumphantly. "See? Predictable."

"Then it sounds like you need more surprises," he growls, flipping them over again and covering her body with his. She feigns outrage and then sighs happily into his neck as he insinuates a thigh between hers.

It's a bit of a paradox. It's inescapable, really.

Because here's the thing:

It's not like she _enjoys_ fighting with her husband.

But she can't deny that making up is pretty great.

* * *

 ** _To be continued, of course. Thank you for reading! You know what's coming next. (or do you?) And do you support the continued parole of these fiends? Review and let me know!_**

 ** _And hat tip to Right Hand Blue for what Addison might call her extremely offensive, totally unfair ... and admittedly accurate concerns in her review of the last chapter that the ultra high tech windows might come up in this chapter ... :)_**


	11. since the world's been turning

**A/N: Happy Humpday! Remember this story? Addison and Derek Take Manhattan (and each other) and try not to end up in Rikers along the way? Last time we visited the Shepherds, they had been kicked out of the hotel and decided to relocate to the brownstone they abandoned for Seattle. You know, so they would seem grounded and responsible to the judge. It's not like the brownstone has any - baggage, right? So what could possibly go wrong?**

 **As always, this contains both adult content _and_ adults refusing to act their age.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Six Miles High, Part Eleven  
 _Always Burning, Since the World's Been Turning_**

* * *

"Let me guess." The uniformed officer doesn't bother to hide his sardonic tone, which is just … frankly _rude_ , and unbecoming of a civil servant, but she'll deal with that later. He's squinting a little as he leans into the open squad car to address her, the flashing red and blue lights flickering off his face, illuminating his handlebar mustache. "You have a perfectly logical explanation for all of this."

"As a matter of fact, officer … I do."

Addison sits up a little taller to emphasize her point, hastening to grasp the blue warming blanket a little closer around her bare shoulders as she does so. It's chilly out here, far colder than it was during the day, and the single layer isn't quite as warm as she'd like.

"They always have a perfectly logical explanation," the officer announces to the air.

The rather smoky air, though it's better now.

Officer … Pulaski, that's his name, is blocking half her view, standing over her in a rather unnecessarily intimidating way as she sits in the backseat of the open cruiser. Then again, when she cranes her neck, Addison can see that a crowd has started to gather.

So maybe she's better off hidden.

"Can I go back in now?" she asks in her most deferential tone. "Officer?" She widens her eyes a little to emphasize her vulnerability. Surely he'll be moved by that.

"FD hasn't cleared the domicile yet," the officer repeats, looking utterly unmoved. "So about this perfectly logical explanation - are we talking about a logical explanation for the B&E, the domestic, or for the fire?"

"There was no domestic, I _told_ you," Addison sighs. "He was just – well, I'll let him explain that. The B&E is – complicated. And as for the fire – well – I guess I'd feel more comfortable waiting for my husband to tell you that story."

"Oh, you'd feel more comfortable waiting for your husband, would you? I would hate to have you to tell the story before you feel _comfortable_ about it."

She gulps. "Um, can I have some water, please?"

They can't refuse her that. It's a violation of the Geneva Conventions. At least she's pretty sure she remembers Savvy saying something about that a hundred years ago when they were studying together. But then she switched to telling her something that Weiss had learned how to do, and Addison started taking notes, and then –

Well, that's not really important right now.

She wraps the blanket a little tighter around herself as red lights glance off the stoop.

 _How_ exactly did they end up here?

..  
..

Both Shepherds are morning people.

There's no other _person_ you can be, as a surgeon. Wake up at 5 a.m. long enough, during formative enough years, and that's that.

But this morning, both Shepherds find themselves dawdling.

Addison spends longer than necessary seated on the vanity in the large, sleek bathroom, staring at her reflection and occasionally running a brush through her hair.

Derek shaves so slowly the cream starts to drip onto his bare chest, which he decrees requires another shower, which takes even longer. Especially after she joins him.

"Checkout's at eleven," Addison says mournfully, gazing at her eyelash curler like it holds some kind of reprieve.

… it doesn't. The concierge pops by at 9:30, 10, and 10:30 just to bid them a fond farewell, thank them for their much-valued service, offer to carry their luggage and, during the last visit, Addison is fairly certain, communicate an unspoken threat to involve the authorities.

A uniformed bellhop summons a cab while the concierge ushers their bags along with insultingly obvious relief.

And that's that.

They're sitting side by side in a yellow cab headed uptown with a trunk of luggage –

To say nothing of the rest of the baggage they're bringing with them to the brownstone.

..  
..

"Here's that water you asked for," the officer says, sounding less than gracious. "Catch."

Quickly, she frees a hand to grab the small water bottle the officer tosses her – managing to keep her emergency blanket from dispelling the last myth of modesty _and_ to catch the bottle, which is a miracle. She reminds herself to tell Derek that the next time he's yelling at her for slowing him down in doubles.

 _Doubles_ reminds her of some of their closest matches, the long sweaty ones that seemed like they went on forever as the advantage swapped back and forth. They were mostly with Savvy and Weiss; Eric was too softhearted to take advantage – no pun intended – of his superior strength, so they usually ended up with either a hollow victory or Eric forgetting to play nice and accidentally sending the tennis ball right _through_ the fence.

Not over the fence.

 _Through_ the fence.

That was an interesting one to explain to their landscaper. Nancy's wouldn't have been nearly as shocked.

With Savvy and Weiss, though. They were well-matched. And there was something about her husband mid-match when it was getting really close, the way his damp shirt would cling to him and he'd curse over missed balls and then she'd get distracted and –

She's a good tennis player. All things equal, probably better than Derek. It's just that she has trouble concentrating on the court when he's around, so he's never seen her play her best.

Maybe they can play some tennis while they're here, come to think of it.

"Mrs. Shepherd."

She looks up. She hasn't corrected the officer, hoping she'll seem more innocent without the MD attached to her growing record.

Not that he seems to have _seen_ her growing records, which is – well. A relief, even if she's not sure how long it will last.

"I really hate to interrupt whatever – _this –_ is." Pulaski gestures toward her general vicinity and she realizes her head is cocked to one side and she can feel her eyes misty with memory.

She focuses on the present.

On the officer's handlebar mustache, which is impressively large and only a little less red than her own hair.

"But if you could get back to giving me your statement, that'd be great."

"Right." Addison fidgets, then exhales a sigh of relief when one of the firefighters strolls up, distracting the officer who's been questioning her.

"How's it looking in there?" Pulaski directs his words to the FDNY.

"Could be a hell of a lot worse." The fireman is glaring at Addison. "You are one lucky lady," he says.

 _Oh, yeah. Lucky lady. That's me._

"Does that mean we can go back inside now?" Addison asks eagerly.

"They're not done clearing it, so hold your horses." Pulaski glares at her. "Not to mention we still haven't located the deed to your … alleged house."

"It's our house," Addison insists. "It really is."

"Is that why my partner found evidence of a break-in?"

"I can explain that!"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. You have an explanation for everything."

"It's our house," she repeats. "I can prove it. Ask me anything about it. I can tell you where I hid the – " She stops talking. "Poor choice of phrasing," she says. "It's a 1994 Chateau Margaux. It's perfectly legal, I was just hiding it from my husband. It's from the year we were married," she explains.

"Yeah? Congratulations."

She chooses to ignore his sarcastic tone.

"And I was saving it for our twentieth anniversary. Which will be in … 2014." She wrinkles her nose. "Doesn't even sound like a real year, does it?"

"Let's hope I'm retired by then," Pulaski says. "Or at least dead. You ready to get back to the issue here, or do I need to hear where in the house you hid every piece of your trousseau?"

"I'm … ready." She glances toward the ambulance where she knows Derek is sitting – and she knows he's _fine_ , perfectly fine, but she still wants to see him. "Um, Officer Pulaski?"

"Yes?"

"It's cold out here," Addison says in her most fragile voice, letting her lower lip quiver a bit.

"It's a lot warmer down at the station," the officer says pointedly.

"… but then again, the cold air is bracing." Addison tightens the blanket again, then cranes her neck. She can see Derek sitting half in and half out of the ambulance. He's _fine_ , that's what they assured her, but she would feel so much better if she could actually see him for herself.

"We're all bracing ourselves," Pulaski mutters. He flips a page of his pad. "Let's go, lady. You were going to tell me what actually happened here tonight, if it's not too much – "

"Derek!"

She scrambles to her feet, seeing him walking toward her. _Finally._

He's wrapped in a blue warming blanket of his own, and now that she _knows_ he's fine, and now that she's seeing him up close, she can't help noticing that it brings out his eyes even in the circular glow of the sirens.

He stops a few inches away. "Addison – you're okay," he says.

"I'm okay."

He closes the distance between them and frees a hand – keeping the other to preserve his modesty – and hugs her hard.

He smells like smoke and some chemical she doesn't recognize but she doesn't care; she's relieved enough to cling. With both hands. Which means that her blanket –

"Addie!"

"Got it." She grabs her blanket again, wrapping it tighter.

"I'm so glad you're okay," she whispers against his hair.

"I'm so glad _you're_ okay."

He kisses the side of her head, only wincing a little at what she imagines must be the smoky smell.

"And I'm _so_ glad you're both okay," Officer Pulaski says loudly, "because now you can actually start talking. Am I right? The delay tactics are over?"

"Delay tactics?" Derek looks confused.

"She wanted to wait for you to tell the story of how you broke into the house," the officer says, his tone suggesting exactly how much he thinks of her request.

"We didn't break in," Addison says, then pauses.

Addison looks at Derek.

Derek looks at Addison.

"It's our house," she says weakly.

"Go on … ."

"Well, like I told you before, it's perfectly simple," Addison says with dignity, clearing her throat a little. She gestures at the brownstone behind them, out of which a large and none-too-thrilled looking firefighter is emerging.

..  
..

One word: deflated.

Their trip to New York has involved several different periods of build-up, but it's always built up to _something_.

Until now.

Here, standing on the stoop of their brownstone, all that buildup on the tense cab ride over, the slow climb up the stairs –

"I can't believe you don't have a key." Addison shakes her head.

"I can't believe _you_ don't have a key," Derek counters.

"Why would I have a key?"

"Well, why would _I_ have a key?"

They stand in détente in the chilly air listening to people pass by on the sidewalk, their bags propped on the stoop.

"We look like idiots," Addison mutters. "How long are we going to stand here?"

"Until we figure out a way in," Derek says. "I'm not going back to jail," he adds when she starts to protest.

"How are those our only two options?"

"You're the one who – "

"Do _not_ mention the ferry." Addison glares at him. "Or I'm never having sex with you again."

He snorts loudly. "That'll be the day."

"Would you just – " She stops talking, her eyes widening. "I have an idea. The basement!"

"Maybe tonight," he says with some interest, "if the realtor didn't hide the swing."

"Not the _basement_ basement," she hisses, her cheeks coloring, "the basement _window._ "

"Oh." Derek clears his throat. "What about it?"

Addison points. "It still has the loose pane."

"So?"

"So, you wanted to figure out a way into the house. That's a way in."

But it's not quite that simple. It rarely is.

They're standing side by side on the flagstones leading to the iron-barred door to the basement – really the ground level. They're not getting in there any time soon, and the gate is a little too reminiscent of their brief experience in jail for her tastes.

But there's the window she remembers, the round one with the loose pane. The lock never quite worked, and when she complained about it to Derek he would remind her that it was invisible to the naked eye. Someone would have to _really_ want to get in to figure that out.

Which was – less than comforting, and she told him so. Often.

It's not so bad now, that loose pane. It's _great_ now. She shrugs out of her jacket and pushes up the sleeves of her sweater.

"Okay, slow down there, Bonnie." Derek is shaking his head.

"Now what?" She tosses her long hair. She has no doubt Clyde would have been on board without second-guessing her all the time.

Fine, her main knowledge of Bonnie and Clyde isn't exactly historically sound. It's more those costumes that were on sale that one Halloween – his, especially, the way it –

" _Addison._ " He's still trying to get her attention.

"What?"

"Like I told you every time you flipped out about this window – it's too small for a person to fit through."

He did tell her that. But.

"That was about a person, like a … robber," she corrects him. "Not a person like me."

"A person like you," he repeats.

"Are you saying I can't fit through that window?" She props her hands on her hips.

"It's a trap," Derek mutters to his shoes.

"What?"

"I said, it's a trap." He raises his voice to its normal level. "But yes – I am saying you can't fit through that window, Addie, and before you flip out," he raises his voice again to be heard over the start of her protest, "this isn't like when I don't notice you're wearing a new dress and then you ask me if it makes you look fat. Which it doesn't," he adds hastily, "but the only danger _there_ is you flipping out. I'm not going to tell you you're skinny enough to fit through a – a _porthole_ of a window when you could get seriously hurt and – why are you smiling?"

"It's sort of sweet," Addison admits. "You don't want me to get hurt."

Derek runs frustrated hands through his hair.

..  
..

"Women," Officer Pulaski says sympathetically. "Can't please 'em."

Derek nods with satisfaction.

Addison glares. But before she can build up to the lecture both men deserve, someone interrupts.

"Did someone say women?"

They both look up at the new voice. It's another uniformed police officer: badge, gun, little notebook in the hopes of incriminating them.

But this one is different.

"Officer Tara Liang." She sticks out a hand. She's wearing the same blue uniform as Officer Pulaski – but she's …

"A girl police officer," Addison beams, shaking her hand warmly and then grabbing for her slipping blanket; Derek's already helping her hoist it up over her shoulders.

"Actually, they just call us police officers now," Liang says. She glances at Officer Pulaski. "You wanted backup?"

Her expression is doubtful as she takes in both blanket-wrapped Shepherds. Addison supposes they can't look very threatening, although that fact hasn't exactly impressed the police so far on this trip.

"Yes – in case I die before these two get to the point," Officer Pulaski mutters.

"Ah. Understood." Liang nods. "What have I missed so far?"

Addison opens her mouth to respond; Pulaski responds instead, jerking one large thumb in the direction of both Shepherds. "Male and female suspects – "

"We're not suspects!" Addison protests; Derek hisses at her to be quiet and she glares at him.

" – B&E, domestic, possible arson – "

"It wasn't arson!" Derek's the one to protest now. Addison elbows him in the ribs, but that just makes her blanket slip down again.

" – this one was naked when we got here – "

Derek's cheeks flush visibly red, even in the dim light. "There was no time for clothes," he mutters.

" – and they're claiming they own the house – "

"We do own the house," Addison insists. "I mean, it looked a lot better when we lived there, but we still own it. I'm going to talk to the realtor, because some of the changes really make the place look – "

" – and they're not great at getting to the point," Pulaski finishes loudly. "That about sums it up."

"Okay, great!" Liang smiles, looking a little like she wishes she hadn't answered the backup call. "So, where were you when I got here?"

"They were just about to tell us how they broke in through the jimmied window over there."

"We didn't break in," Addison sighs.

"Not through the window, anyway," Derek allows.

"Would you just – "

"Would _you_ just – "

"Would you _both_ just," Pulaski interjects, louder than either of them. He shakes his head, glancing at Liang. "They're married," he says. "That part of their story definitely checks out."

"You found the record?" Liang asks.

"I didn't need to," Pulaski says.

Addison sighs. It's just one misunderstanding after another on this trip.

"Now that Officer Liang is caught up," Pulaski says, looking like he's too tired to force a smile under his large handlebar mustache, "maybe you can keep going with the story."

Addison clears her throat. "Right. So, the window. Derek said I couldn't fit through it – "

She pauses, giving Officer Liang a meaningful glance that she doesn't return.

Oh well.

"So I told him I'd skipped breakfast and burned a lot of calories in the shower this morning – " Addison stops talking, her cheeks pinking a little – "anyway, so that meant I could fit through the porthole."

Officer Pulaski has removed his glasses and looks like he's considering whether to crush them in one meaty fist.

Addison directs her gaze to the female police officer instead. They're both professional women, and there's such a thing as sisterhood, even if it's not about fitting into small spaces.

… not those small spaces, the other small spaces.

"And? What happened next?"

Addison and Derek exchange a glance.

It's Derek who starts talking.

..  
..

"This … is a terrible idea," he says. He looks from the two-foot thicket of hedges blocking the private garden to the soil packed around it to the unforgiving cement at its base … and then back to Addison, whose arms are folded stubbornly.

"It's not a terrible idea. It's a good idea."

She's a little breathless, presumably from insisting that he attempt to push her through the open porthole window. He finally got tired of her nagging and made a valiant attempt that got one shoulder through and a shriek so loud he was surprised it didn't break all the rest of the windows in the place.

"Your last good idea almost dislocated your shoulder, Addison."

"My shoulder is fine."

"Then why were you howling like a banshee?"

"I was not _howling like a banshee_ , I was just _–_ Derek, do you _ever_ want to have sex again?"

"Yes," he says automatically.

"Then stop insulting me and start using the razor in your suitcase to cut through the hedges!"

..  
..

"A razor. Seriously?" Officer Liang looks doubtful.

"Not _just_ a razor," Addison says defensively. "I used my manicure scissors, too."

The two officers exchange a glance.

"We needed to get inside. It was _cold_ ," Addison adds, adding that extra quaver to her voice – which would work better if Derek could manage not to roll his eyes. What happened to being so glad she was unscathed after the fire?

"Keep going," Officer Liang says patiently.

"Well, we managed to cut enough away to – we cut some of the hedge, anyway. It took a while," Addison admits, then straightens up a little. "It's actually a really powerful lesson, when you think about it, that very small steps when you add them up can – "

"Yes, very meaningful, I'll make sure to tell that story to my yogi," Pulaski interrupts. "But if you could get back to this house in particular – the one you allegedly own – "

"We don't allegedly own it, we _own_ own it," Addison corrects him firmly. "It's not my fault your squad is too – "

" – busy," Derek interrupts loudly.

" – busy," Addison concedes, "to pull up the deed."

Derek shakes his head at her and she shrugs a little.

"Fine. So back to this house you _own_ own, but don't have a key to, and just … shaved, and manicured … I mean, before you set it on fire."

Addison and Derek wince in unison.

"Go on," Pulaski gestures expansively. "Don't leave any detail out. Really. We have no other cases."

..  
..

"I told you this was a terrible idea."

"Shut up," Addison mutters. She's using her mirrored compact to pick dead leaves out of her long hair. Her formerly white sweater is a mess of dirt and twigs and she doesn't really want to imagine what else, although she's pretty sure that while she was – _submerged_ – in the surprisingly dense hedges, she heard some … scurrying.

Ugh.

"Fine. I'm shutting up." Derek looks around the garden. "I'm shutting up, but you actually managed that army crawl – seriously, it wasn't bad," he says, forestalling any protests, "you really put your back into it. And you got the gate open. And now we're in the garden."

"Excellent recap." She snaps her compact shut. "What's your point?"

"My point is that we're in the garden, but … that's about it."

"I had the last two ideas, Derek. How about you pitch in instead of just criticizing my ideas?"

"Seriously?" He shakes his head. "Your ideas got us just about as close to the house as we were when we were on the stoop, except now you're a lot filthier. And not in the good way," he adds under his breath.

"I heard that."

"Good, you were supposed to."

For a moment they just glare at each other.

"This is stupid," Addison says finally. "Let's check into another hotel."

"Weiss said not to."

"Weiss said not to do a lot of things, Derek, including having sex on that – bearskin rug thing in the country house!"

"We weren't supposed to have sex on the bearskin rug thing?" Derek looks genuinely confused. "Why the hell else would you give someone a bearskin rug thing?" He pauses, his tone turning suspicious. "He did give it to us … right?"

"Um. It _may_ have just been a loan."

Derek's eyes widen. "You didn't tell me that at the time."

"I was … distracted?" Her voice goes up at the end. "I was going to tell you," she adds defensively, "but then you started doing that thing with your – "

Derek shakes his head. "So that bearskin rug was actually for Savvy?"

"…'s grandmother, yes," Addison mutters, holding up a hand when Derek starts to protest, "but the point is, just because Weiss said we should go back to the brownstone doesn't mean we have to listen to him."

"Weiss is our lawyer."

"No, Weiss is our friend. _Carter_ is our lawyer." Addison makes a face, then brightens. "I bet Carter knows some sleazy ways to break into houses!"

"I'm sure he does," Derek says, "but I'm not sure that's an email we really want to send him."

"Right." Addison sighs. "Okay. So. New plan." She draws herself up to her full height, bravely, even if the effect is lost when some more dead leaves float off her cashmere sweater and land in the spikes of new grass. "We sleep out here."

"We sleep out – _what?_ "

She points to the wrought-iron bench that's threaded through with roses in the summer. She has to micromanage every second of it with the landscaper, but it's worth it, even though she can hear everything he mutters about her under his breath. "There. We'll sleep on the bench."

"The cushions aren't even out."

"The cushions are in the basement," Addison reminds him. "Maybe if I skip dinner too I can fit through the window."

"Addison." Derek massages his temples. "This is not a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's cold, for one thing."

"It's spring."

"It will be cold overnight. And iron isn't the warmest material for a bed," he points out.

"We can spread out our clothes … ?"

"Addison."

"What's your better idea?" she demands. "So far, all you've done is shoot down my perfectly good ones."

"I didn't hear any perfectly good ones," he mutters.

Meanwhile, he's revolving in a circle like he's trying to get a full view of the garden.

So she tracks his gaze. It's not like there's anything new – it's exactly the same as it's always been, from the low stone wall to the beach glass embedded in the narrow walkway, to the wrought-iron bench – antique, and the shipping was a minor disaster – to the back door itself, which is steel-reinforced. Damn her for caring so much about safety or whatever. There are the Amish begonia baskets that Derek loves and she couldn't bear to tell him were just this side of tacky, and then there's –

Oh god.

Oh _god._

"Derek!"

He turns immediately at her shriek. "What the – "

"O-over there." She points with a shaking hand. "Derek – no, don't touch it!"

But he's already picked it up.

"What's the big – "

"Get it away from me!" she shrieks, backing away so fast she almost trips into the grass.

"Addison." Derek shakes his head. "You're being ridiculous." He looks down at the lumpy little ceramic figurine. It's smiling up at him with a painted red mouth that matches its jaunty pointed cap.

His wife, on the other hand – her eyes are squeezed tightly shut when he looks at her.

"Did you kill it yet?" she calls shakily.

" _Addison._ It's just a – "

"It's not just anything. Derek, I saw it!"

He shakes his head. "Addison, you're being ridiculous," he repeats. "Just – would you just open your eyes?"

She does, reluctantly.

It's still there.

"A … garden gnome," she breathes in horror, pressing a hand to her chest and then wincing a little when it comes away flaked with soil and leaves. "On my property. A _garden gnome._ "

"What's so bad about it?" Derek turns the little gnome over in his hands. "I think it's kind of cute. My mom had one sort of like this, actually."

"No comment," Addison mutters, looking away. "Just – get rid of it. Put it in the trash, bury it, _anything._ I don't know how it got here. It must have – walked." She shudders visibly at the image.

Derek is still studying the gnome with interest. "I'm not getting rid of it," he says.

She puffs up angrily. "Derek, if I have to look at that thing, I am going to – "

"Yes. I heard you. And when you're done with the vapors," Derek says mildly, "I think you might want to take a closer look at this … garden gnome."

"I thought you _heard me._ I'd rather die than take a closer look at any garden gnome, thank you very much."

"Fine." Derek's holding the hideous thing in one hand and he's fussing with the – back of it, it's … overalls, which seem to be coming off – and oh god, this better not be one of those bizarre sex toys from overseas that he ordered and no one was here to sign for it and –

Something is dropping into the palm of his hand.

Something small, and shiny, and metal.

"A key?" she squeaks.

"A key." Derek nods triumphantly. "The realtor must have left it here when she was showing the place."

..  
..

"It was really _very_ good detective work," Addison tells the officers, beaming in her husband's direction.

Derek smiles smugly.

"Lady … I think you're mixed up," Pulaski informs her. " _Detectives_ are the people who track you down when you're done breaking into houses. The people who do the breaking in are called _criminals._ "

"We're not criminals! You can't break into your own house. It's a – legal impossibility," Addison says triumphantly, "like when you – marry an identical twin, or … ." Her voice fades it. Damn it, but she should have paid closer attention to Savvy when they used to have those parallel study sessions in the library. Then again, they put their break time to good use, didn't they? And Derek would certainly agree. Before that one time, second year, she'd never even heard of a –

"Well?"

"Oh. Sorry." Addison draws the blanket a little closer around her, then glances at her husband. "Honey? You want to take it from here?"

..  
..

The key works.

He's shocked.

This isn't exactly the type of trip where things _work_ for them.

They've actually been _jailed_ on this trip, for one. And now they're on some kind of sex parole and Derek still isn't quite sure how much of their windowed performance might have been recorded for posterity and, as a result, how much of the West Village is currently privy to the knowledge that Addison is a natural redhead.

Nothing works on this trip, but the key works, and then he's opening the basement door for both of them and they're feeling their way along the darkened walls until –

"Our things!" Addison's face is a mask of horror. Not quite as bad as when she spotted the garden gnome, but close enough.

He looks around. There are what look like a thousand rubber tubs and the bookshelves are full to bursting; he recognizes far too many little relics of their past for his liking. Boxes labeled _M1_ and _M2_ , those fussy little plastic containers for Addison's out of season shoes, the fishing rods she surprised him with one Christmas, the vintage map of Columbia's campus he bought her for their second anniversary, where he circled every –

"Why are all our things here?" she asks, turning huge eyes on him.

"This is what realtors do, Addie," he reminds her patiently. "They were showing the house to renters, weren't they?"

"Yes," Addison admits. "But they didn't have to – hide all our things. Like there's something wrong with them. This one – this is an antique," she reminds him huffily, picking up something he doesn't recognize in glass and metal. "You'd think the renters would want to see it."

"What is that, a kitchen thing?"

"I guess." Addison looks at it doubtfully, then her cheeks color. "Actually, um, I think it's – " She stands on tiptoe to whisper directly into his ear.

"Right." He's flushing now too. "Well, I'm sure it's safe down here."

Addison clears her throat.

Going upstairs seems prudent right about now.

She pauses when he rests a hand on the doorknob leading up to the hall stairs.

"Please tell me they didn't double lock the – "

"Nope." Derek smiles at her. "After you."

And then she's up the stairs and then they're out of the basement and they're in the house.

They're actually _in_ the house.

One blink and he's flooded with unwelcome memories.

Six – no, seven years of memories.

Carrying her over the threshold the day they moved in and then, when it became a joke between them, over the threshold of each individual room, too. The intricate whorls on the moldings that she loved when they first saw the house. The antique balustrade – she taught him that word, and she clasped her hands when she saw it and he knew she'd insist on this house. He didn't fight her on it either. There was something about it that was just … _them._

The little inlaid bar, perfect for his scotch. The rabbit warren of rooms – it's an old house, and houses were different then, which means a perfectly cozy office for each of them, apart, but a grand library downstairs too, all dark wood and velvet, perfect for reading when they wanted to be together.

The great room with the delicate rug she insisted on and scolded him if he wore shoes, the high-backed Victorian couch that wasn't particularly comfortable when it came to sitting but was actually the perfect height for other things.

Then he looks again at the balustrade, at each individual spoke under the banister of the staircase leading upstairs, and he sees her clasped hands, underneath glowing eyes, the last day they toured the house. _Derek, please, it's perfect. We're not going to find anything better. Please, Derek._ Her hands swim in front of his eyes then. They're still clasped, but this time they're clasping the banister, not each other. The antique balustrade she loved, _it's perfect,_ and she's still pleading but it's different. Everything is different. _Please, Derek. Please._

His stomach turns over.

Everything is the same.

… but everything is different.

"Derek?"

When he turns she looks uncertain, framed in the open archway the realtor pointed out enthusiastically, something about _light_ and _shape._ He tugs at his collar. Too bad the realtor couldn't find them something with _air._ He feels like he's choking.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he says quickly, before she can touch him.

"It's a little … strange," she says tentatively. "But it's, um, it's mostly the same, right?"

He ignores her. He's looking at the built in shelving by the leaded windows that overlook the street. There's usually a wedding portrait there – a silver frame from someone on Addison's side, and a formal black and white portrait that he didn't choose.

He preferred the candid one, the one where she's laughing and holding his arm, the one she didn't realize was being taken. The one upstairs.

But the portrait is gone.

Along with their other personal effects, it's gone, apparently boxed up in the basement.

"It's what realtors do," Addison suggests quietly, using his words. "You know, they make it … generic."

Derek nods. There's a much less grand wooden frame on another shelf, though, and he picks it up. "What do you think this is for?" he asks, studying the photograph inside.

"It's like – a generic family," Addison suggests, peering over his shoulder. "You know, like the pictures that come in frames."

Derek considers this. The family in the portrait looks blond, hearty, and wholesome. Like they get a lot of fresh air. Man, woman, two children. The little girl actually has two fat pigtails on either side of her head and the boy has an improbably cute cowlick.

"Oh, look, here's another one," Addison says with interest. She's across the room now. "And another! They even have a little school portrait thing."

She points to another framed picture – the same little girl, or an equally generic blond, in a plaid uniform this time.

Derek glances at it. "The realtor went to a lot of trouble."

Addison shrugs. "Stock photos, probably," she says.

Right. No wonder they look so wholesome.

Like the rest of this place, they're not real.

Addison is casting an uneasy glance in his direction.

"I'll just – get the luggage," he says, before she can speak.

And then he goes to retrieve their bags from the front steps, while Addison stays inside … with their baggage.

..  
..

"Very touching." Pulaski looks like he doesn't actually mean it. " _And_?" he prompts when no one continues.

"And … that's it," Addison says. "We left the house."

"You left the house," Pulaski repeats doubtfully.

"Derek brought in the bags, I changed, of course," she adds hastily, shuddering a little at the memory of her ruined sweater, "and then we left."

"Right after you got there?" Liang asks curiously.

"We needed some space," Addison admits.

Derek is looking away from her, glowering.

"I mean we, um, we wanted to check out our old haunts," Addison says. "The old neighborhood or … whatever."

Her voice trails off.

..  
..

Their _old haunts._

At first it seems like a good idea, away from the stifling history of the brownstone.

Addison keeps up a stream of nervous chatter – no surprise there – and she's hanging onto his arm as they walk, so he's not exactly getting space.

But they're getting space from the brownstone, at least.

And they do start to feel a little better as they walk down the street.

There's air to breathe, cold and – well, somewhat clean. Derek's the one who suggests coffee. It's been months since they've set foot in the spot where they used to be regulars.

It still looks the same, from the outside anyway, all steamed up glass and brass fastenings – inside, it's the same little dark wood tables and mismatched cane chairs, many occupied by people working on laptops. It smells the same – like _the good coffee_ , as Addison would say.

One long, deep inhale and he feels a little better.

Old haunts are good.

Old haunts mean people who know your orders.

People who pull the perfect espresso shots for you.

But then he spots a familiar shape from the back, reaching for a paper cup that he knows will hold a cappuccino, and he doesn't feel _a little better_ anymore.

He feels worse.

Because the problem with old haunts … is that old haunts alsotend to contain people who know _you_. Friends, even.

Old friends.

This one, with their luck, contains the one old friend neither of them wants to see.

..  
..

"Why not?" Officer Liang asks, sounding confused. "Why wouldn't you want to see your best friend?"

"I might if he were still my best friend," Derek says tightly.

Addison is fidgeting with the corner of the blue warming blanket, avoiding Derek's eyes.

"Go on," Officer Liang says with interest.

Reluctantly, Addison does.

..  
..

"Well, if it isn't the happiest couple in Seattle." Mark grins. "What did Manhattan do to deserve the pleasure of your west-coast company?"

Addison is avoiding eye contact. "Visiting," she says neutrally, feeling Derek's tense muscles next to her body. He hasn't said one word since they spotted Mark.

He hasn't had to.

"Nice." Mark turns to Derek. "Listen, Derek, do you have a minute to – "

"No, I don't," Derek says shortly. "My time for you is all dried up." His face registers clearly how much he's interested in talking to former best friend.

Mark actually looks – hurt, but before she can register that, Derek is turning to her.

"Addison … let's go."

She feels frozen between them. Mark is looking plaintively in Derek's direction, and he looks … the same. Mark always looks the same.

"Listen, no need to get all up in arms." Mark's tone is conciliatory. "Stick around, let's – "

"I'll be outside," Derek snaps in her direction.

"Derek, wait – " Mark is extending a hand.

But Derek is gone, the door chimes jangling loudly in his wake.

"Great. Thank you, for that." Addison glares at Mark. He just grins at her; apparently, he's enjoying this.

"So the reconciliation thing is going well, huh? You two looked pretty cozy."

..  
..

"I don't want to hear this." Derek glares at her, and she shrinks down a little in her blue warming blanket.

"I want to hear it," Liang pipes up with interest. She and Pulaski exchange a glance, and then she beckons Addison. "You can tell me over there," she suggests.

"Really?" Addison looks doubtfully at Officer Pulaski, who waves her away with a resigned expression.

Liang leads her to the stoop next door, leaving Derek and Pulaski alone at the squad car.

"Is it okay to sit here?" Addison gestures at the stairs, hoping it's not a trick to arrest her for trespassing.

"Sure. That's what this is for." Liang pats the pistol on her hip reassuringly, waits for Addison to sit, and then takes the seat beside her. "So," she prompts, "your husband's best friend … former best friend, sorry … there's a history there, clearly."

 _Clearly._

That's one way to put it.

Liang just looks at her, waiting. The porch light on the neighbors' brownstone doesn't give her much opportunity to hide.

"I, um, I kind of slept with him." Addison waits until Liang has closed her dropped jaw. "My husband already knows," Addison adds hastily.

"You told him?" Liang's eyes widen.

"Uh, in a manner of speaking."

"Oh." Liang looks slightly disappointed. "So what's so secret about your conversation, if your husband already knows everything?"

Addison leans back against the stoop. "How much time do you have?"

..  
..

"Cozy," Mark repeats when she doesn't respond. "Addison and Derek, together again. Happy as … two clams." He raises his eyebrows at her. "So I guess that means you finally told him everything."

She doesn't say anything.

She doesn't have to.

"Unbelievable." Mark is shaking his head when she raises her eyes to see. "So I'm still the bad guy, and you and Derek are the victims?"

"It's not like that," she mutters.

"What's it like, then?"

She doesn't respond.

"Addison." He reaches out a hand – to touch her hair or her face, she's not sure, but she takes a step back, avoiding contact.

"Don't," she says quietly.

"Right. I get it." He holds up both hands innocently. "You made your choice." He pauses. "Just – how strong is this marriage of yours, actually, when Derek doesn't even know what really happened?"

She ignores him.

"He's going to talk to me again someday, Addison. I might tell him, you know."

"He's not going to talk to you," she says, uneasily.

"So you'll just bank it all on that. Spend what, the next fifty years hoping your husband doesn't find out?" Mark shakes his head again. "Some marriage."

"That's not fair."

"Maybe not. I don't know what's fair." Mark's expression is conflicted. He takes a sip of his cappuccino, still looking at her. "I just know I miss you," he says. "Both of you."

Addison sighs. "I'm sorry you're hurt," she says quietly.

"You're sorry I'm hurt, or you're sorry?"

She just shakes her head. "I need to go."

"What are you doing here, anyway?" he asks before she can leave. "You're really staying in the brownstone, the two of you, after what – "

"It's our home," she says tightly.

"I thought your _home_ was Seattle." He raises an eyebrow. "And weren't you renting out the brownstone?"

"I talked to a woman. A realtor. But it's still ours; no one else is living there yet."

"Addison." Mark leans forward. "Look, there's something you should – "

"I don't want to know."

"Yeah? You sure about that?"

"I'm sure about it." She squares her shoulders. "The last time I listened to you, I almost lost Derek."

Mark's eyes widen even further. "That's your story. I talked you into it?" He whistles. "How's the weather in fantasy land, Addie?"

"Better than the weather in Seattle," she snaps. Her voice softens, guilt tugging at her. "Look. I need to focus on my marriage right now."

"Say no more." Mark lifts both hands, all innocence. "Forget about me. Just have a nice stay in your … home."

She leaves before he can say anything else.

Derek is … not right outside.

Great. At least she knows he hasn't left town – if not because he's committed to their marriage, then because he's committed to _not_ pissing off the NYPD any more than they already have.

She finds him half a block away … glaring.

"I hate to rush your reunion," he says sourly.

She lowers her eyes.

"What did he want, anyway?" Derek asks, irritation evident in his voice.

"Honestly?" Addison looks up at her husband. "He wanted to talk to you."

"That's not going to happen." Derek turns away without asking her to join him, but she catches up.

"Derek … I didn't know he was going to be there." She rests a hand on his arm; his muscles are tense under her palm.

 _Don't touch me_ , they say.

"I know that," he mutters, and she lets her hand fall back to her side.

"Look, Derek, can we just – "

"Can we just what, Addison? Forget the coffee shop where my _former_ best friend ambushed us, and go back to the house where I found you screwing him?"

She blinks, the force of his words hitting her.

He draws a deep, long breath – one she can tell takes effort – but he doesn't apologize.

"Derek." She touches his arm again, just briefly this time.

He ignores her.

She tries again: "Look, this … trip, it can be a… a fresh start."

"We already had a fresh start. In Seattle."

"And we're going back there," she says, her voice shaking a little. "Derek, we're only here another week. That's it."

Cold anger is radiating off his set face.

It's hard to believe in the moment that this is the man a whole court system, police department, and some of their best friends have to work to keep off of her in public.

Right now, she's not sure she could pay Derek to look her in the eyes, much less want to touch her.

"I'm _sorry_ ," she says. "Derek, I'm sorry."

"Let's just go."

He's still not looking at her, and she can't miss that he doesn't say _let's just go home._

He doesn't say _home_ at all.

..  
..

"So that's when you set the house on fire?" Liang asks eagerly. "Revenge?"

" _No_ , of course not." Addison sighs. "There's a lot more to the story."

"How much more?" Officer Liang looks wary.

"Well … ."

..  
..

She doesn't do it on purpose, not exactly. She's not sure if she's trying not to retrace their steps in case Mark follows them, or whether she's avoiding the brownstone, or whether it's some instinct that they're better off spending more time outside.

Whatever it is, she leads them on a circuitous route back to the house.

And whether it's the bracing cool air or the distance from the coffee shop or something else entirely, she can feel some of his anger at her starting to fade.

Somewhat hopefully, she touches his arm. Heartened he doesn't protest – or interrupt his stride – she tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow.

She can't help smiling as they walk the last few blocks.

"Addison."

"Hm?" She looks up at him with hazy eyes on the top step of their brownstone, outside the front door. "Did you remember to bring the garden gnome key?"

"The garden gnome – " Her eyes widen. "You _didn't_ bring the garden gnome key?" she asks, her voice sliding into panic register.

..  
..

"Neither of you brought the key?" Liang shakes her head. "After all that?"

"Well … ."

..

"… and Addison forgot the key," Derek explains to Officer Pulaski, wondering how his wife is telling this story. In a way that makes her look good, no doubt.

Although Addison _looking good_ is, unsurprisingly, part of the problem, as he recalls the memory of her wriggling through the hedge.

"So? You broke in again?" Pulaski prompts.

… sort of.

..  
..

"I can't believe I'm ruining another sweater," Addison grouses as she prepares to crawl once more through the hole they painstakingly cut in the hedges.

Derek just watches impassively. He could offer to crawl through himself, since she already did it once, but she's smaller and more flexible and they'd probably have to cut away more hedge for him to fit in there.

It's easier to let her do her army-crawl once more and then open the gate from the inside. Like before.

Plus … he's not exactly in the mood to do her any favors right now.

He watches with his arms folded as she wriggles her way through the dense hedges.

Just to make sure she gets through.

Not because he's enjoying the view.

"Are you happy now?" she demands when she opens the gate. There are leaves and twigs stuck in her long hair again, though fewer this time – maybe she's gotten the hang of it. Her sweater – this one is dark green, and it makes her eyes look equally green – is smeared with dirt once more.

Happy?

No.

That's not the word he would use.

..  
..

"All I did was crawl through the hedges," Addison explains to Officer Liang. "It was purely utilitarian."

Liang just watches her.

"Any benefits were … unintentional."

..  
..

Inside the privacy of the garden, Derek brushes some dead leaves from her hair.

Is it her imagination, or does his face look a little softer?

"Thank you, for doing that." He nods toward the hedge.

A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. "Any time."

"Are you okay?"

She nods. "Well … a little stiff, maybe." She touches her shoulder experimentally, wondering if he'll offer her a massage.

He gives her a look that says, _don't push your luck_ , but he does open the unlocked basement door for her and wave her inside first.

So that's something.

She finds herself crossing her fingers inside the pocket of her jeans as they make their way up the stairs. They have no choice but to be in this house. But maybe it will be better this time.

He gets her a bottle of water from the refrigerator – which also contains apple juice in little red and green boxes like the kind her sister-in-law buy for their children.

"Did I already say the realtor seems detail-oriented?" Derek opens another bottle for himself.

"You did." Addison is noticing an apron hanging from one of the cast-iron hooks on the wall. She smooths the material.

"'Kiss the Cook'?" Derek reads.

"Realtor," Addison says immediately.

"It has to be," Derek agrees.

Addison rubs the material between her fingers. The apron should be burned, obviously, but the message does make her feel a little bit of longing.

She's no cook, but she wouldn't mind being kissed right about now.

Or anything, really, to suggest her husband still loves her.

"Addie?"

"Yes, Derek?" Her voice is a whisper.

"There's a spider in your hair."

What follows is chaotic – she drops her thankfully closed bottle of water in the midst of her shrieks and thrashes to and fro while Derek attempts to hold her still enough to retrieve the traitorous arachnid.

"Would you just – stop – " he pants, finally pinning her against the kitchen wall. "Hold still!"

"Get it off me!"

"I'm _trying_ , Addison, if you would stop flipping out for two seconds!"

"I'm not _flipping out!_ " She says the last two words at a shriek, though, which doesn't lend much support to her proclamation, and then shoves at his hands when he reaches for her hair.

"Do you want me to get the spider or not?"

"Get it!"

"Then hold still!"

With great effort, she manages to stop pushing at him, though she flinches when he reaches for her hair. "Hold still," he repeats, "just hold … there."

He smiles triumphantly.

"Did you get it?" she asks anxiously. "Did you get the spider?"

He unfolds an empty hand. "…there was no spider."

"What?!"

She pushes him away from her, succeeding this time. "There was no – Derek, what were you thinking?"

His expression is actually – smug.

"You were getting back at me," she says slowly. "You were getting back at me? Seriously? I almost had a heart attack, and there was no spider?"

"There could have been a spider," he mutters.

"But there wasn't." She glares at him. "That wasn't funny, Derek."

He doesn't answer.

"It was mean."

He just looks at her.

"It was … manipulative," she adds, and he raises his eyebrows.

"Manipulative … like pretending not to have the key, you mean?"

And before she can stop him, he's taken hold of her belt loops and tugged her toward him, turning her easily with one hand and sliding the other into her back pocket.

"Derek, what are you do – "

He holds up the key he's retrieved from her jeans.

… oh.

"I didn't know I had it," she offers weakly.

"Of course not." Derek's tone makes clear how much he believes her. "That's why you took twice as long to crawl through the hedges as you did last time. And more … theatrically, too."

She widens her eyes, offended. "I was doing you a favor!"

He snorts. "Hardly. You were … trying to distract me."

She opens her mouth to protest. Derek's eyes are skimming back over her to where he retrieved the key. He's always liked her in these jeans, which she knew when she put them on, and if his view from outside the hedges was a nice one, shouldn't he be thanking her instead of complaining?

"Did it work?" she asks in a small voice.

Derek shakes his head. "You're incorrigible."

"You are too, then," she insists. "You invented a fake spider!"

"You let me think we didn't have the key." He takes a half step closer.

"You got us kicked out of the hotel," she counters, taking another half step of her own.

"Pretty sure we did that together," he says.

"Oh … right."

He's standing very close now.

"Addie?"

"Hm?"

"It was a nice view," he concedes, closing the space between them and pulling her close, dirty sweater and twig-strewn hair and all, his lips capturing hers.

She returns the kiss with gusto, then pulls back. "Don't ever fake me out with a spider again," she says breathlessly.

He pulls her ruined sweater over her head. "Fine," he says. "Don't _you_ pretend not to have the key again."

She tugs at the hem of his shirt, which is dirty now too from the close contact with her clothing. "Fine," she says, stripping the shirt off him at last. She moves to the button of his jeans while his hands skim over hers again, roaming into the back pockets where she hid the key. Her hands drop away, no longer able to focus, when he pulls her in closely.

"And don't, um," she says weakly, trying to think of another promise to extract. "Don't … "

But his lips are on her neck and she can't quite remember what she wanted to say.

"You want to fill me in on it later?" Derek asks kindly, flicking open the buttons of her jeans with one hand while the other explores the pink lace separating her skin from his.

" … that sounds like a good idea."

..  
..

"Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled you two made up," Pulaski says with exaggerated patience. "But I'm still waiting to hear about the arson."

"It wasn't arson," Derek says hastily. "And I'm getting there."

"Hurry up and get there, then," Pulaski orders, which sounds uncommonly like the part of the story he was about to tell.

..  
..

"Hurry," Addison pants as they tumble down the hall, pausing to press each other into this wall or that one when they run out of patience.

She's breathless, her jeans somewhere between the kitchen and the library, and she groans when he pushes her against the closed library door and thumbs the lacy fabric between her thighs.

"Would you be patient?" He's amused though, not annoyed, enjoying her dilated pupils and the way her chest is rising and falling with her uneven breaths.

"Would you just – Derek!" she shrieks when he pushes open the library door behind her.

He catches her with his other hand – just one hand – drawing her up against him.

She's breathing hard.

"That's a dirty trick," she says.

"I hope so." He kisses the side of her neck.

"I could have cracked my head open!"

"I caught you, didn't I?" He pushes her away gently to look at her. "Plus you have your own personal neurosurgeon on call, just in case."

She mutters something unintelligible; he's gone back to exploring the lacy fabric separating him from the heat of her. Her head lolls against him, and he smirks into her hair.

… and then picks a dead leaf out of his mouth.

Addison wrinkles her nose.

He kisses it.

She smiles up at him, apparently forgetting her anger over their mutual tricks. He pulls her back into his arms, shuffling them both toward the wide wine-colored window seat. That cushion has seen a lot.

Heard a lot.

 _Felt_ a lot; it's sturdy and it's the perfect size for –

"Spider!" Addison shrieks suddenly, grabbing at him in a panic.

"Addison, that doesn't work on me. I don't mind spiders."

"No, it's not a trick! It's a real one! A huge one! A – " She pauses, frowning. "A fake one," she says, sounding much calmer now.

"A fake one?"

He follows her gaze.

Sure enough, sitting on the window seat cushion is a large rubber spider.

"Addie, you should maybe have a talk with this realtor."

"Maybe I should." She studies the fake insect. "Oh, look – " And she points to a white plastic box labeled _Junior Entomologist Kit._

"It's a toy," she says, sighing a little. "More staging, I guess."

"Seems unnecessary," Derek frowns.

"Well, the realtor knows what she's doing, I'm sure. She came highly recommended."

Derek nods, no longer interested in talking about the realtor. He slides a hand up the back of one thigh, under the fabric of her –

"Stop."

He stops. "Now what?"

"We can't do it here."

"Why not?"

" … the spider," Addison says, sounding embarrassed.

"It's just a toy."

"I know that, but it's still … ." She shudders a little. Leaning back in his arms, she looks up at him under her lashes. "Can we go somewhere else?" she asks. "Somewhere without … toy bugs?"

He can't refuse her like that, obviously.

"Of course," he says. They stumble back through the hall to the staircase.

"Upstairs," she pants, one of her hands inside his open waistband.

"Upstairs," he agrees, taking a mouthful of lace-covered flesh.

They stagger up the stairs.

"Guest room," she whispers in his ear, her tongue darting out and making him hiss; he pulls her closer in retaliation and slides a hand up the inside of her thigh this time.

He has to grab the balustrade with one hand when she retaliates this time with practiced fingers – "Addie, wait," and he fends her off long enough to get to the guest room.

She pauses outside the door, looks right at him, and licks her lips.

"Do I still have to wait?" she asks.

"Um … no."

"Good." She pushes open the door of the guest room –

"Um … no." But her tone is much different as she takes in the guest room.

Derek peers over her bare shoulder at the ride-on wooden horse, train-printed bedding, and various stuffed animals. There's a stack of board books on the bedside table and even one of those netting-protector things he remembers from various nieces and nephews installed on the side of the bed.

He feels his excitement start to wilt.

"They really go all out, this realtor," he comments.

"I guess it makes it look more homey or something."

There's a pause where they both study the room that looks – there's no way around this – like a nursery.

Then Addison turns around, her soft skin brushing against him and making him forget there ever _was_ a realtor. He's about to tell her they can just do it right here on the board books and dinosaur models when she grabs his hand.

"The other guest room," she pants, when he's pressed her against the wall next to a generic flower print he doesn't recognize.

"How about right here?" He kisses the side of her neck in that way he knows gets her to agree to pretty much anything – he can trace nearly every fishing trip in their marriage to promises he extracted from that one spot –

"Bed," she says, pushing him, and he relents.

He lets her drag him to the second guest room – and then groans again.

"Is this a practical joke?"

The pretty white guest room Addison decorated, with its jars of shells and crisp sheets and soft grey curtains, looks nothing like he remembered. The bed is there, but it now boasts a large pink princess canopy. There's an array of dolls propped against the pillow, a pink and silver tutu tossed onto the rug.

"The realtor is into those gender norms, hm?" Derek turns her around and pulls her back against him, running his hands over her hips. She hums with pleasure as his fingers skim lower.

"No," she says quickly. "Not here."

"It's a freaking museum of unsexy rooms, Addison, what do you want from me? Take it up with the realtor!"

"It's _pink_ ," she hisses, and he follows her with annoyance out of the room. At least he gets to watch her walk away.

"This was our bedroom, Addison," he reminds her coolly when they reach the last, closed door.

"I know that." She takes a deep breath. "But there's no other bedroom, Derek." She quails a little at his expression. "But, um, I guess we can find somewhere else."

His enthusiasm is waning along with their options.

She seems to sense this and grabs his hand. He lets her lead him to the closed door of her office.

… which has apparently turned into a model playroom, including a crisscrossing web of train tracks, approximately a thousand tiny wooden trains, and a number of wheeled toy emergency vehicles.

But they have their own emergency right now.

"How many train tracks does one nonexistent kid need?" Derek grouses. They've pushed away most of them – hopefully the realtor wasn't too attached to the web she put together, which was complex enough that he'd hate to commute on them.

"She's very thorough, I guess." Addison winces, and Derek helps her roll to the side and then detaches a small red caboose from under her … caboose. "That's going to bruise," she sighs.

"Sorry."

"Not your fault." She reaches up to twine her arms around his neck. "It's not a bed and there's a non-zero amount of trains around, but – come on, Derek, you like trains. You remember that time on Metro-North when – "

"That was a real train," he says with dignity, "not a toy train."

She pulls him down for a kiss and he decides he might as well give in. The trains don't show, much, when his eyes are closed, and his hands are busy anyway, reacquainting himself with soft skin, sleek muscle underlying every curve. She's strong – he's reminded of this as he attempts to wrestle her into some semblance of submission so he can taste her and she threatens to cut off his oxygen supply like the Bond villain she must have been in a previous life.

She tugs on his hair hard enough to rip his scalp and he gives up, changing his plan and flipping her over – making sure the rug is free from trains first, of course.

She stretches full length under him, arching her back and turning pleading eyes his way. He swallows hard. That look has always gone straight to his groin, even as the most inappropriate moments. It's never failed.

Not once.

Then again, neither has he.

There must be a first time for everything.

..  
..

"You mean … ?" Officer Liang raises her eyebrows.

Addison nods gravely.

..  
..

"Derek." She's sitting up, cross legged, her hand resting on his thigh.

He doesn't look at her.

"Honey … don't take it so hard," she says gently, then pauses. "So to speak," she adds.

"This never happens," he announces. She's not sure who he's announcing it _to_ , since they're the only ones in the house and she's well aware of his sexual history, having marched through it for the last sixteen and a half years.

"I know that," she reassures him. "It's not a big deal, Derek."

He looks down, his expression dejected. "Not now, no. But it should be."

"Derek." She scoots closer, pausing when he shoots her a not-exactly-welcoming look. "It's not so bad."

"It's bad," he says grimly. "It's new, and it's bad."

"Maybe it's all those toy trains," Addison suggests. "The trains are the problem."

Derek looks up, a little hopeful.

"You think?"

"I think it's worth a try."

… but it's not the trains, apparently.

Or if it _is_ the trains, it's alsothe stiff Victorian couch, which is draped in an unfamiliar woven blanket.

And it's also the kitchen with its new display of colorful crockery Addison would never have bought.

And the dining room too, or at least the mason jar of crayons propped on the credenza.

"We could try – "

"Forget it." He scowls, massaging the back of his neck with one hand. He's propped his bare hips against the dining room table, his expression very dark.

This isn't good.

This isn't good at all.

"Derek … ." She drops gracefully to her knees, resting her hands on his thighs, enjoying the feel of his muscles under her hands.

"Don't waste your breath," he says from above her, his tone glum. "Or your … mouth. It's hopeless."

" _Don't_ say that." She rises to her feet with some help from her husband and then takes his face between her palms. "Derek, listen to me. You can't give up. Not now. You wouldn't give up on a patient, and you can't give up on him."

"Him?"

" _Him._ " She looks down. "He needs us."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "He's a _him_?"

"What do you think he is, a _her_?"

He presses his lips together, _Derek_ for I-won't-concede-the-point-but-I-won't-oppose-it-either. The man is stubborn, she knows this well. And apparently so is … he.

"Maybe it's me," she suggests, taking a step back and looking up at him. "You've stopped finding me attractive."

" … since this morning?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure I found you attractive in the hotel."

"Twice," she points out brightly. "Okay, so maybe you're just tired."

"If that were enough … we would have been celibate for all of medical school."

"And residency."

He nods, then seems lost in thought.

"Derek …"

He looks up at her. "Now what?"

..  
..

"That's rough," Pulaski says.

"It was a minor mishap," Derek says with dignity. "From an … old war injury. You know how it is."

"Oh, yeah." Pulaski frowns, adjusting his hat. "I do know how it is."

"And it's not a big deal," Derek says hastily.

"It's not a big deal," Pulaski agrees, just as hastily.

..  
..

"It _is_ a big deal." Derek scowls at Addison, who doesn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. She's less concerned with his frustration and more with its origins, for some reason.

"It could be the garden gnome," she suggests thoughtfully.

"It's not the garden gnome, Addison."

"Well, if it's not the garden gnome, and it's not any of the rooms in the – Derek," she pauses, her tone anxious now. What if it's the house?" she asks.

"The house?"

"The whole house, I mean." Her eyes are huge with worry. "Do you think the house is what's freaking him out?"

Derek groans. "Addison, would you stop talking about him like he's a person? … I mean like _it's_ a person?" he corrects hastily.

"Sorry." She pauses, then touches his arm. "It's very normal," she says gently.

"Not for me, it's not," he mutters.

"Okay, maybe it's not normal for you, but it's still normal. It happens a lot. Once, when I – "

"Please spare me the stories of your misspent youth." He glares at her. "And spare me doubly if any of these stories involves Mark and spare me _triply,_ " he raises his voice to speak over her, "if none of the stories involves Mark."

"Well, then I don't know what you want me to say!"

"How about nothing?" he suggests sourly.

She blinks, looking hurt.

"Fine. I'm going to go take a shower." She pauses. "Do you want to come with me? We could – "

"No," he says shortly.

"Fine," she snaps again. She's still wearing her pink lace bra and she makes a show of taking it off, slowly – of course she does – which doesn't do anything except make him more frustrated.

She pauses while he glares.

"Derek, are you sure you don't want to – "

"I already said no, Addison! Go shower already – you still smell like the hedges."

Addison's eyes widen. "There's no need to be rude. And besides, I didn't hear you complaining earlier, when you were _in_ those hedges."

He pauses, trying to work out how much is innuendo and how much actual recollection of her girl-scouting in the garden.

"Derek – "

He ignores her. She doesn't understand. She can't possibly understand. _One_ day without – satisfaction, and she was an absolute monster. But of course he's supposed to just … snap out of this, lest it inconvenience her.

Just pretend that the one thing he's been able to count on since – well, since he could count, but that's not the point – has failed him?

Typical. It's all about her. It's always all about her.

She makes one more attempt. "Look, it's cold outside, and – "

"Addison, I said I don't want to talk about it!"

"Fine!"

She stomps out of the dining room and he realizes that he's not sure where she plans to shower – or where she thinks they'll sleep tonight

He grimaces – the house may not be responsible for his atypical failures … but it's not doing much good, either.

Maybe they should never have come.

..  
..

" … so to speak," Derek adds hastily. He looks at Officer Pulaski, who seems distracted by something in his hand.

Derek waits.

"Did you, um … ?"

"I heard you," Pulaski says.

"Should I, um, should I go on?"

"Sure. You do that."

..  
..

He realizes he wasn't the only one thinking about how to work out the logistics of the house, because when he finds his boxers and heads upstairs, feeling a little guilty for snapping at her, he finds her paused with her hand on the closed door of their old bedroom.

"I guess I can, um, shower in the hall," she says when she senses he's behind her.

When he doesn't answer, she walks away, her posture dejected.

But not as dejected as … his.

Once he's alone, Derek makes his way to his office – which mercifully hasn't changed much, with the same ergonomic chair Addison special-ordered from Sweden and the antique writing desk she loved. The framed prints of the Adirondacks are still there, including his favorite with the blurry spot over the fir trees on the right – it's her thumb, because he kissed her just as she was taking the picture. It's never failed to make him smile with memory.

Some things are different. Inexplicably, there's a stack of what appear to be law books on the desk. Apparently the realtor thinks lawyers are more appealing than doctors – he files this away to amuse Savvy and Weiss the next time he sees them. There's a yellow legal pad, too – it even has some realistic-looking notes.

Maybe it would easier to be here if everything were the same.

Or if everything were different.

But the mix of old and new … it's hard.

(So to speak.)

He just leans back in the ergonomic chair … thinking.

Addison finds him there after her shower, wrapped in an unfamiliar pink towel – "the realtor must love pink," she shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. "At least there are no tutus," she pronounces and he can't disagree.

She's standing over him, her long fragrant hair hanging loose. In the midst of all this _she_ is utterly familiar, and he feels a little twinge for snapping at her before. It's not her fault, whatever's … happening to him. It surprised her as much as it did him.

"Addison … ." He looks up at her face.

He's not really sure what he was going to say but he never finds out; she smiles down at him and then settles on his lap in the ergonomic chair as if it's the day it arrived, christening it, her skin warm and damp through the fabric of the towel.

He's never been able to resist her straight from the shower.

But she doesn't make it easy – Addison rarely does, when it doesn't suit her. "You were mean," she says, tilting her head toward him. "Before."

"Yeah?" He slips his thumb under the edge of the towel where it rides high on her thigh and enjoys her sharp inhale. "How about I make it up to you?"

"It's not that easy," she pouts.

..  
..

" _Easy_ ," Pulaski says. "That's a funny choice of word."

"What do you mean?" Derek asks, confused.

"Just that the boys got the system working again." Pulaski holds up the phone that seemed to be distracting him earlier.

"Oh. That's good, right?"

"It is and it isn't," Pulaski says.

Derek blinks. "You'll be able to find the deed to the house now, right?"

"Sure. We should be able to pull up that deed and if the house really is yours … we'll know."

"That sounds good," Derek says tentatively.

"Yeah. But turns out the boys found something a little more interesting first."

"Something more interesting?" he asks weakly.

Pulaski studies him for a moment. "The database is also where we keep track of criminal records."

"Oh." Derek looks back and forth from the firefighters outside the brownstone to the officer, buying time. "… that."

"Yes. _That._ "

Derek opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to figure out how to address this.

"Officer, there's actually – "

" – a very logical explanation, I know," Pulaski says wearily. "But the thing is – "

Derek never finds out what the thing is.

One of the firefighters interrupts them, huge and sooty in his black fireproof pants and coat.

He's holding something in his hands.

A stub of something small and burned out and … fragrant.

Okay, there's no way he's fielding this one without Addison.

* * *

 _...to be continued. Hope you enjoyed this hugely long chapter. There's another next Humpday if you did! (And don't worry, all my other WIPs are in progress too.) Review and let me know what you think - I love reviews like Addison and Derek love reliving their many, MANY inappropriate memories!_


	12. air, fire, water, earth

**A/N: Merry Eve of Christmas Eve! It's Addek's season, as we all know, and in the interest of balancing the angst, here's the 11,000 words of cheerfully filthy Addek goodness you didn't realize you'd asked Santa for. Whatever your Christmas plans - celebrating, not celebrating, working, boycotting - I hope this is a pleasant distraction.**

 **Now. When we last left Our Heroes, they were valiantly trying to explain themselves to New York's Finest after a still-mysterious fire in their brownstone. And, maybe more importantly, they were facing a very serious issue: Derek's uncharacteristic failure to perform. I KNOW. It's awful. Okay, here we go:**

* * *

 **Six Miles High, Part Twelve  
 _Air, Fire, Water, Earth: Cleanse, Dismiss, Dispel, Disperse_**

* * *

"…he was just _here_ , that's all," Addison is explaining to an irritatingly unsympathetic Officer Liang, when she sees Officer Pulaski marching toward her behind a reluctant-looking Derek.

"Mrs. Shepherd – "

"Dr. Shepherd," Derek corrects, and Addison can't help smiling at him even if this really isn't the time for him to fight her equality battles.

"Pardon me, _Dr._ Shepherd," Pulaski repeats, sounding unimpressed, "your husband here says you're the only one who can possibly explain this."

He holds out his hand and she gulps when she sees what he's holding, wrapped in some kind of fireproof foil.

"Um, can I speak to my husband alone, please?"

"Why, so you can get your stories straight?"

 _Of course._

"Of course not." Addison widens her eyes and lets a quaver enter her voice. "I'm very traumatized by the fire, that's all."

"Yeah, I can tell you're a real … delicate flower," Officer Pulaski mutters.

Addison sighs, giving up. As long as Derek's here ... she pats the step next to her and he settles on it, wrapping an arm around her. She leans against him; the emergency blanket is scratchy and so is his jaw against her scalp. It feels nice.

But then one of the firefighters strides over to join them.

"We're still trying to get the story," Pulaski tells them, "if you can believe it."

The fireman points at the stub in Pulaski's hand. A stub of something small and burned out and … fragrant.

He and Pulaski exchange a glance.

"Oldest story in the book," the firefighter mutters.

"I can explain," Addison says quickly. "Just … it's kind a long story."

"No kidding, lady," Pulaski says sourly. " _War and Peace_ was a shorter story." He exhales a loud, frustrated breath. "Fine, just – start talking."

"Okay." She glances at Derek and clears her throat a little. "Officer Liang and I were discussing a … tangent, before," she says, keeping her gaze on her husband to avoid the officer's judgmental gaze. "Um, so where did you leave off in the story?"

"We were in the office," Derek says, looking like he has to try hard to keep his face neutral.

"Oh." Addison's cheeks flush at the memory. "The office." She pauses. "Honey, maybe I'll let you take it from here, and I'll chime in when we get to the – "

"Someone start talking before I arrest the both of you for obstructing an investigation," Pulaski growls.

..  
..

In his office – with its new realtor props but the same ergonomic chair he remembers – Addison is perched on his lap in a towel. The warmth of her obvious through the damp fabric, but one of her eyebrows is arched; she's still upset with him.

"How about I make it up to you?"

"It's not that easy," she pouts.

"I like my chances, though." He smiles at her smugly and she looks like she's about to argue with him when he slides his hand higher under the towel and she hisses, the words dying on her lips.

She may not make it easy, but he makes it anyway, winning her over with a combination of persistence and apologies he whispers into the sensitive skin at her neck while he lets his fingers do the work the rest of him can't.

When she's purring on his lap, her head lolling against his shoulder, he grins at her, then steals a kiss from the tender skin of her exposed shoulder.

She laughs a little, tiredly, then turns look at him. Her eyes are hazy like they often are, after, heavy-lidded and satisfied, her arms wrapped around his neck.

"Worn out already?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Maybe." Softly, she bites her lower lip. "Why, is there something I should stay awake fo – Derek!" She squeaks with surprise as he tips her off his lap only to sweep her off her feet again, lowering her to the carpeted floor.

"What are you doing?" She gazes up at him.

"Making it up to you," he suggests.

"Didn't you already do that?"

"What can I say? You're a tough sell."

He grins at her, his mood improving significantly as he starts kissing a trail from the hollow of her collarbone – a winding trail, like the ones he'd convince her to hike with him. She'd say yes, sometimes. A switchback, one rib to the next, spending plenty of time wherever he sees fit to camp out. She's writhing under him in no time at all – the other thing about his wife, as he's well aware, is that she _does_ make it easy, when it suits her.

At least with him.

By the time he's reached the summit, so to speak, she's in full angry octopus mode. He takes his time anyway, teasing her. The sounds she's making are going to kill him, whatever … physical oddness is going on below, so he ignores that and focuses on her, diving back in with abandon.

She's frantic underneath him now, leg muscles flexing violently against his forearms – but when she finally loses patience and grabs handfuls of his hair, threatening to make his current affliction permanent, he pays her back by withdrawing completely. She groans; he watches, amused, as she thrashes around on the rug and curses him for a while, until it seems finally to occur to her in her pleasure-dazed state that she can finish the work herself.

He's been waiting for this moment; he waits a little longer for her fingers to skim down one hip, _almost_ making it, before he captures both her hands and pins them over her head.

"I hate you," she says, although it would sound more convincing if she weren't grasping him with her thighs at the same time, desperately trying to pull him closer.

"Yeah?" He slides his free hand up one trembling leg and dips it casually between her thighs, making her gasp. "You have an interesting way of showing it."

Nothing she says next is printable; she tugs the hand pinning hers, but all that does is arch her back and improve – if possible – his already spectacular view. He takes advantage of this, nipping mercilessly at her soft flesh until she's cursing him again.

"Derek!"

He pauses. "Yes?" he asks politely.

"The last time you decided to torture me, we broke the wall of our hotel room."

"Mm." He takes a moment to remember. He's not going to forget that any time soon. "I think this house is a little sturdier."

"It might not be if you keep this up," she says darkly.

..  
..

"Maybe you should have listened to her," Pulaski suggests, raising his eyebrows, which are almost as red as his handlebar mustache. "And did you just tell me you've done more property damage than just the fire?"

"No," Derek says hastily. "'Broke the wall of our hotel room' is … a metaphor."

"Yeah. I should have guessed." Pulaski waves a meaty hand with resignation. "Go on."

..  
..

"Always with the threats." Derek repositions himself over her, releasing her hands briefly – amused and a little flattered that she uses them to grab him rather than try to relieve her own frustration. She tastes smooth, a little smoky, when he kisses her, like the espresso they drank earlier.

Which makes him remember the coffee, remember what interrupted it, and he bites down harder than he meant to.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry." He sits up on his elbow, brushing her hand away to run his thumb over her bottom lip. It looks a little swollen from their kisses, but not injured. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." She props up on her elbows again.

"I'm sorry. Really."

"I know." She smiles up at him and lets her thighs fall open a little, her whole body an invitation.

He swallows hard.

… but still, nothing.

"Forget it," Addison says softly. She runs her hands over his shoulders, down his arms, urging him closer. He never brought her over that cliff where he left her, and if he knows her at all she must be aching for release. But she's gentle, not pressuring him, her cool hand sliding warmly over him.

"It's a lost cause."

He rolls over on his back, an arm thrown over his face.

"Don't say that." She leans over him, her long hair brushing his bare chest. That _alone_ used to be enough to get him … ready.

What the hell is the matter with him?

"Derek?"

"Hm?"

"You want to – pick up where we left off?"

He lifts his arm up where it's been blocking his vision. She's leaning over him, smiling, and there's only one answer to that. He fills his hands with her silky fragrant hair, pulling her down against him. Her hips are doing things he doesn't quite understand while he tastes the corners of her mouth and lavishes enough attention on her bottom lip to apologize for his earlier indiscretion.

She's patient at first, impressively so, but he can tell the moment the flexion of her hips becomes more about her and less about him. She groans when he grips her thighs, stilling her movements. Still holding her firmly, he sits them both up at the same time – she gasps a little with surprise. Full bodies pressed against each other, as close as they can be, he takes his time revisiting his favorite spots on her long, elegant neck – her delicate collarbones – the muscles of her shoulders and the little hollow where they dip into the soft skin of her upper arms.

She's shifting in his lap with purpose but he chose this position for a reason; with her legs suspended outside his and his arms holding her still while his mouth makes reacquaintance with her tender skin, she won't be able to find the friction she needs. She tries arching her back, but he's ready for her, shifting so that she can't quite reach her target.

She throws her head back with frustration but that just exposes even more of the tantalizing length of her neck. He takes advantage of it, nipping at the softest spots and enjoying the even softer sounds she makes, finally dipping his head to take first one rosy bud into his mouth, and then the other.

"Still hate me?" he asks, around the soft flesh in his mouth; he's kissing his way between her breasts and back again.

"Yes," she mumbles, her lower lip caught between her teeth, an expression of extreme concentration. "Derek – can you please just – "

But he doesn't. He takes both of her legs and swings her off his lap, spreading her out on the rug again instead.

"Just kill me," she suggests. "It will save us some time."

"Not until I'm finished with you," he says pleasantly.

"So that means you _are_ going to finish?" She sounds a little happier now.

He doesn't answer, not at first. She shivers a little; it's cool in the house.

So he lets his hands answer for him, skimming over her bare skin and warming every chilled inch of it.

He draws her hands up over her head when they interfere with his journey, but he doesn't hold them there, just kisses her wrists and presses them lightly against the carpet. She gets the hint, but she strains anyway as if he's actually holding her down. Never let it be said she doesn't have an active imagination – but he's grateful, because it frees up both his hands. He buries a few fingers of one of them inside her, moving them in the way he knows drives her crazy until she's thrashing hard against the pressure.

He withdraws at the last minute, leaving her at the edge once more.

Her face is flushed, damp tendrils of hair curling around her face.

And … she's hissing, spitting mad.

Fine, he can't really blame her.

He just ducks out of the firing zone, kissing the quivering base of her stomach while she vents her rage with words he's fairly certain she didn't learn in finishing school.

"You want to stop?" he asks her when he can get a word in.

"You know I don't." She glares at him, swiping a hand across her forehead; it's damp with perspiration when he catches it in his own and pins it over her head again.

She closes her eyes, her frustration strong enough to taste. He studies her as she lies there, her legs so tense from struggling to satisfy herself that her muscles are visibly straining. Beads of moisture dot her upper lip – he does taste her then, licking them away as she sighs into his mouth.

"Addison."

"I'm not speaking to you until you finish the job," she says, eyes still closed.

"Open your eyes."

"Why?" She does it though, glaring at him.

"Because I want you to," he says simply and he can see conflicting emotions play across her face as she tries to keep from responding to his tone.

"I still hate you."

"As is your right." He settles on top of her slowly, lazily even, propping some of his weight on his own arm but leaving enough on her body to pin her firmly to the rug.

Her eyes are dark with desire when she looks up at him; he insinuates a thigh between hers and her body all but seizes at the contact, grasping for more, slippery with need.

He takes pity on her and kisses her for distraction, long and slow until she hums with pleasure. Finally, he slips a hand between them and in the middle of her sigh of relief he withdraws it once more, using it instead to push her thighs further apart and settle between them.

She's watching him warily.

He smiles down at her, enjoying her electric edge of her uncertainty almost as much as the feel of her softness underneath him.

"Close your eyes," she suggests.

"Not a chance." He nips at her collarbone and the side of her neck until her wriggling threatens to pitch him off her.

"Why not?"

"I don't trust you."

He's teasing her – it's all teasing, isn't it, pushing her to the brink and back again. It's nothing more than he's done to her any number of times, typically while she egged him on with enthusiasm bordering on shameless, and was rewarded richly at the end. She's done it to him as well – although thinking about that now, thinking about the satisfaction he's had in the past and won't have tonight, about his body failing him, leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

"Maybe you shouldn't get to finish if I can't," he suggests lightly.

She narrows her eyes, maybe trying to decide what he intends.

"What do you say?" He shifts a little, grinding purposefully against her and she hisses, somewhere between desperation and discomfort at this point – yes, he's fluent in her hisses, at least in this position.

"I say … okay." She looks up at him, her eyes innocent now. "But if I don't get to finish, then _you_ don't get to see me naked."

"How do you figure that?"

"Fair's fair."

He considers this. Then he closes his eyes.

And slides both hands with slow deliberation over everything he can reach – which is pretty much everything. She's quiet underneath him – not speaking, her breath coming in jagged bursts.

"Derek – "

"I can't see anything," he responds, keeping his tone innocent. "Wasn't that the deal? You don't get to finish … and I don't get to see."

"That's not fair."

"Says who?" He shifts his weight to pin her securely beneath him, the arm underneath her drawing her closer and giving him better access to the top half of her body. He takes his time tasting her, slides his other hand between them and skims his fingers lightly over the flesh that's been waiting for him.

She tenses, her thighs straining against his hand.

"No seeing," he says lightly. "And no finishing."

"Derek!"

He slides the same hand underneath her, cupping a handful of soft flesh and pulling her hard against him. Whatever's going on with … him, the feel of her is still intensely powerful and he can tell from her staggered breathing that she agrees.

And then he pushes her gently away, laughing at her frustration. His eyes are still closed but he memorized her years ago; his weight on her holds her still and, he knows from experience, heightens all her sensations.

His are pretty heightened too, with his eyes closed: the scent of her is overpowering, the taste of her – salty under his tongue when he visits her collarbones, samples the skin at the side of her neck. He hears everything, of course: the jagged breaths announcing her arousal, the slick slap of skin on skin as they both move in turn.

And touch.

Well, that goes without saying. She's satin under his hands: he strokes his way up and down just one thigh at first, his palm covering his favorite parts; he slides his hand behind her knee and draws that same leg up against him so the impossibly silky skin of her inner thigh is pressing into his hip.

He'd be lying if he denied his own frustration, how much he'd give right now to bury himself deep inside her, to open his eyes – the one sense he's denied right now – and see the way the color of _her_ eyes always seems to change, just a little, when she opens to accommodate him.

But this – this isn't so bad, he decides: they're married, so if one of them is frustrated the other one is too. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know exactly where she is and how to touch her, so that when he strums her lightly with just his thumb he's not at all surprised to hear the almost instantaneous change in her breathing.

"Don't – touch me like that if you're – not going to let me – finish." Her words are as staggered as her breathing.

"That wasn't our deal."

" _Derek._ "

He eases just that one finger inside her; she quiets down, maybe thinking she's about to get what she wants. He leads her along for a few carefully calibrated moments – she's shifting underneath him for purchase, trying to draw him in deeper, to get _more_.

Of course she wants more.

And then he's done.

His eyes are still closed, but he's easing off her, pulling her legs apart easily when she tries to brace her own thighs to give herself the friction she needs.

"Derek!"

"You're so impatient," he scolds.

"You _just_ noticed that?"

She sounds almost panicked and it's all he can do not to laugh.

"No," he admits. "I noticed that the first day I met you."

She's quiet under him as he slides along her body, one palm on either leg to keep her open to him.

Then she's gasping his name again when he suckles the satin skin on the inside of first one thigh, then the other. She gives token resistance but he's insistent, just a little more pressure than he knows she likes until he feels her fingers knot in his hair.

"Hey." He stops what he's doing. "Put your hands back."

"Why? It's not getting me anywhere."

He considers this. His own eyes are still closed, but he can picture her expression.

Slowly, he dips his head closer to where he knows she wants it. He can hear from the change in her breathing that she's watching his every move, just as he expected.

He inches closer.

Closer.

Her breath catches in her throat; he has to hide a smile.

Then he doesn't hear anything at all; she must be holding her breath.

One long, slow taste – agonizingly slow for each of them, for different reasons, and he feels her exhale so hard against him he's surprised she doesn't leave the floor.

"Derek!"

"Yes?" He's back to kissing the base of her stomach; she's especially sensitive there when she's close like this and her body rises underneath his, trying to get more contact.

"It's not fair," she repeats.

"My eyes are closed," he reminds her, his tone matter-of-fact … maybe a little smug. "You have your end of the deal … and I have mine." He cups one hand around flesh so hot it burns and hears another frustrated breath.

"If you can't see me naked, then you shouldn't get to _feel_ me naked either."

"You should have thought of that earlier," he says pleasantly. He's feeling her right now and enjoying it too – so is she, by the sounds of her breathing, but he's keeping his distance from where he knows she wants him.

"It's not fair."

"This again?" He nips a little harder at her neck and she pushes on his shoulders.

"Hands," he reminds her.

"Derek!"

"We had a deal."

When she doesn't move he reaches up himself; his eyes are closed and hers open, so she could avoid him if she wanted to, but his hands close easily around her wrists.

"That's cheating," she complains.

"You would know."

He says it without thinking and when he opens his eyes and sees the expression on her face, he feels instantly guilty.

They were just kidding around. Weren't they?

 _Fuck._

Except he can't, which is part of the problem.

And it's not fun anymore.

..  
..

Addison props her face glumly in one hand, then peeks carefully through her hair to see if Officer Liang looks sympathetic.

"You did sleep with his best friend," the officer points out.

"Whose side are you on?"

"The people of the city of New York," Liang says primly.

"Well, Giuliani's gone," Addison reminds her. "There are more important things to do than chasing down – " She pauses, trying to decide how to finish the sentence, glancing at Derek, who mouths, _stop talking._

"Sex maniacs?" Liang offers.

"We're not _sex maniacs._ "

"Really?" Liang glances at Pulaski, who nods. "Is it a different Addison Shepherd who was arrested for indecent – "

"No, no, that was a misunderstanding," Addison says quickly. "We weren't naked."

Liang sighs. "That's what they all say."

"They do?"

"Sure. It's _I didn't inhale_ for the sex maniac crowd."

"Oh." Addison considers this. "Um – where were we again?"

"You were just getting upset because the husband you cheated on called you a cheater."

It's Addison's turn to sigh. Why did she think attempting to bond with a female officer would somehow help her? Apparently there's no such thing as sisterhood, or at least not when Derek is around. She edges a little closer to her husband now, trying to block Liang from his infuriatingly twinkly eyes. They're probably the reason she's not taking Addison's side.

"My husband didn't call me a cheater," Addison clarifies with dignity, "he said, _you would know._ "

" …right."

"Sorry, how is any of this relevant?"

"We're getting there."

..  
..

For a moment they're just frozen.

Then he lets her go and she pulls away, curling onto her side.

"Addison …"

His hand hovers over her.

"Just forget it." She sits up, and folds her hands over her chest. "Give me my towel."

His eyes widen. She's that mad?

"Addie, come on. I didn't mean it."

"Yeah, you did. You've been mad at me since we got here."

"How do you expect me to be when Mark – "

"That's not my fault! I didn't know he'd be there, Derek. You think I wanted to see him?"

"I don't know," Derek says coolly. "You're full of surprises when it comes to Mark."

She stares at him, and then turns and stomps out of the room before he realizes what's happening, slamming the door behind her.

..  
..

Addison is covering her face with her hands now, playing up her distress, but she peeks carefully through her fingers to see if Officer Liang is buying it.

She can't tell. Damn it.

"It was a really hard afternoon," she says meekly.

"I thought you said it _wasn't_."

Addison freezes, turning to Derek with shock. Did the officer just –

But when she moves her hands, Liang isn't so much as smiling.

She must have imagined it.

"Are these details really necessary … folks?" Officer Pulaski asks.

Derek glances beside him, where Addison is still apparently under the impression that she can charm Liang into taking her side.

"Ask my wife," he says. "She seems to think you need the whole story."

"Yeah, I noticed that." Pulaski removes his cap and scratches his thinning hair, sizing Derek up all the while. "Keep going," he says, sounding almost reluctant.

"Where, um, where was I again?"

"I think you were at the …" Pulaski consults his notes. " … the old war injury that kept you from fully enjoying your afternoon."

Derek elbows Addison as she starts to speak.

"Which war did you say you fought in?" Pulaski asks.

"I don't really like to talk about it," Derek says with dignity. "Too many memories."

Pulaski looks like he's concealing an eye roll – but Derek decides to give him the benefit of the doubt.

It's probably just a reaction to the smoke.

"I'll just keep going," Derek says quickly. "I'm, uh, I'm almost there."

..  
..

He finds his boxers and then he goes to find his wife – she's actually in the kitchen, which would shock him since it's outside of her normal sulking zone, except he knows it's where she dropped their luggage earlier.

She's bent over rooting around in one of the bags, and it takes supreme concentration to stay in the doorway. She sees him watching once she's stood up, a pair of crumpled panties in her hand – he recognizes them, the pink ones she discarded earlier

"You know what?" She glares at the panties, making a few valiant attempts to turn them right-side-out before she tosses them aside and reaches into his bag instead. The next thing he knows, she's stepping into his sweatpants – without asking, of course.

"What?" he asks finally when she doesn't finish.

She turns her glare on him now.

"I'm _glad_ it's broken," she says in a low voice.

" _Addison_." He shakes his head. "You don't mean that."

"You're right," she admits. "It isn't the problem. I like it." She gestures toward his maligned manhood as if there's any question what she means. " _It_ didn't do anything to me," she continues, "and _it's_ always nice." She pauses. "Except when I don't want it to be … which is nice too."

He scowls, the hastily donned boxers concealing the subject of the conversation.

"I'm going out," she announces.

"Where?"

"I don't know." She tosses her hair. "Out."

"Are you going to put a shirt on first?"

She makes a noise of angry frustration but apparently sees his point when she drops her arms and looks down. She's wriggling into the rosy lace bra she was wearing earlier when he finds a clean shirt from his own bag and hands it to her.

"That's yours," she mutters without looking at him.

"I know that. You like to wear my shirts."

"Only when I like _you_."

"So put on my shirt … and maybe you'll like me again."

"I doubt it," she says, but she does take the shirt.

And then she takes his hand.

"I'm not saying I like you again," she warns him.

"I'll keep that in mind." He pulls her in for a kiss. "I _am_ sorry," he confirms, holding her away for a minute. "I don't know why I said that."

"I do." Her tone is grim. "It's this house."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean … this house is the problem, Derek. This house is why you can't – it's why this isn't working. And it's not the trains or the tutu or the … the stupid law books, it's the house. It's cursed."

"Cursed." He raises his eyebrows. "That's a new one."

"Tainted," she corrects herself. "From everything."

He's suddenly very tired; he pulls out one of the stools at the kitchen island and sits down. There's a mug on the table – it's red and white and says CORNELL; it's not theirs.

"The realtor must like safety schools," Addison observes, and he cracks a smile before he stops himself, staring at the marble counter.

"Derek." He doesn't look up, but he feels her cool strong hands threading into the hair at the base of his skull, and then digging into the stiff muscles of his neck, his shoulders.

He lets her for a while, telling himself it's because he's too tired to try to stop her.

Then she's in front of him again, hands on hips, looking down at him like she's studying something.

"I have an idea," she says.

..  
..

"And there it is." The firefighter is shaking his head. "That's how it always starts."

"How what starts?" Addison asks, offended.

The firefighter mimes an explosion with his hands. "Valentine's Day was a month ago, lady," he says.

"I know that."

Liang's eyes widen. "You mean you found – "

The firefighter nods grimly. "White sage."

"Oh, brother. I knew it was going to get to white sage eventually."

A larger firefighter strolls up now. "Brennan. FDNY." He jerks his head toward the Shepherds. "Did I just hear _white sage_?"

He turns a stern gaze on Addison.

She gulps.

..  
..

"White sage!" Addison announces. She pauses for effect as she looks down at her husband. "Well? What do you think?"

"What is that?" he asks. "A restaurant or something?"

"No. Well, maybe, but it's a plant. From the – desert or whatever."

"Oh, that explains it."

She frowns at him. "It's like – a spiritual thing. Cleansing."

Derek cocks his head, considering this. The most spiritual he's seen his wife, other than screaming out whatever deity comes to mind when he really gets her going, is attending the occasional midnight mass. And they're not allowed there anymore anyway, not after –

"Savvy told me about it," Addison continues. "It's this spiritual cleanse thing."

"Isn't she Jewish now?"

"Yes. Well, but since she found out she's one-sixteenth Chickasaw, she's been more into … herbs and things."

"What does white sage do, exactly?"

"It cleanses stuff."

"How specific."

"Come on, Derek, it has to be better than nothing, right? Look," she says when he still doesn't respond, her voice is small. "You agreed that we needed a fresh start."

"I said we had a fresh start, in Seattle."

"I know, Derek, but we're not in Seattle right now. We're here right now. And being here is obviously affecting you if you can't – "

"We know I can't," he snaps, interrupting her, "there's no need to announce it."

She takes a deep breath. "White sage could make the brownstone ours again," she says quietly. "Even if it's just this once. Just tonight."

Derek sighs. "Savvy's really one sixteenth Chickasaw?"

"Yeah. Or one-thirty-second, I can't remember."

"On her Alabama side?"

Addison nods.

"That's not exactly the _desert or whatever_." He frowns. "How does white sage figure in?"

"Derek, you're missing the point again."

Oh, so that's what he's doing.

"White sage is purifying," Addison says. "It cleanses spirits and … things. Like if an environment has bad … juju. It's exactly what we need."

"Bad juju." At least there's one word he knows. "You want to make the house some hot chocolate?"

"No." She pauses. "Well, yeah, maybe later. But first we need some white sage."

"Addie. You're a scientist."

"I know that, Derek. And as a scientist, I'm telling you that we need some white sage. Savvy's cousin used it after a breakup to get her house all … new. No bad juju. For a fresh start." She touches his face. "It can't hurt to try. Can it?"

..  
..

"That's ironic, isn't it?" Officer Liang scribbles something on her pad.

"I suppose," Addison says crossly. This whole get-the-lady-officer-alone thing first hasn't exactly worked in her favor. Maybe things will be better now that Pulaski and the firefighter are here too. If worse comes to worse, she can show a little leg, or … something.

"What happened next?" Liang asks.

Before Addison can answer, another one of the burly firefighters ambles over. This one is younger, and Addison brightens, wondering if now is a good time to show some leg. She's considering how far to pull up the edge of the warming blanket when she notices that he's not actually paying attention to her.

He's talking to Officer Liang.

"Someone had a breakup, huh?"

"Who had a breakup?" Addison asks curiously, as Derek elbows her again. _What?_ she mouths at him, annoyed. She's strategizing here. If it was Liang, maybe she can play up that angle.

The fireman turns to look at her. "Someone must have. That's how it goes: you break up, you burn sage, you set the house on fire. Bing, bang, boom."

"Really?"

"Station gets a call like this at least once a month."

"And a lot more than that around Valentine's Day," says the first fireman.

His partner nods. "Actually, my ex caused a white sage fire too, couple years ago." The firefighter pauses. "Maybe she was hoping I'd take the call."

"That's romantic," Addison offers, smiling.

Both firemen turn on her. "It's not romantic, it's dangerous," the taller one snaps.

"You think fire safety is funny?" the other fireman asks, glaring at her.

God, they're sensitive. She waves a hand in front of her face as some smoke drifts out of the brownstone.

They're still glowering at her.

"Dangerous. I meant dangerous," she says hastily, pulling the warming blanket a little closer around her. "Sorry."

"Whatever happened to that ex, anyway?" the one fireman is asking the other, apparently done scolding Addison for the moment.

"We're married now."

The first fireman looks horrified. "Don't admit that! Word will get out."

"So the white sage did work," Addison says triumphantly. "You married her."

"Well, she was also pregnant."

"… right."

..  
..

"White sage," Derek repeats dubiously, once they've been to two florists, a hippie-ish pop-up store, and finally a shop called _Pagan Urges_ that smelled strongly of incense and he's fairly certain had a peep show in the back.

"White sage." Addison is turning it over in her hands. It's sort of … smaller than he thought it would be, after all this. It looks like a little bundle of twigs tied together with string.

"Now what?"

"Now we use it to cleanse the house." Addison pauses, one of her fingers tapping her bottom lip.

He waits.

"Upstairs," she says. "We should start up there. That's where the most … that's where we need to cleanse the most."

He can't argue with her there.

She's reading from a pamphlet she picked up at the store, ignoring his hissed instruction not to touch anything they couldn't sanitize later.

"Okay, so dry the sage – we already did that part. Or the store did." She runs a finger down the page. "So step two. We need a heatproof surface. They suggest an abalone shell." She looks up at Derek worriedly. "What's an abalone shell? Do you think they have them at Citarella? Or at least at Pagan Urges?"

"Uh … I'm sure any heatproof surface will do," he says.

Addison consults the pamphlet. "It also you can also use a cauldron."

"Well, that's much more convenient."

" _Derek._ " She frowns at him. "Gaia said that this ritual only works if people actually believe."

"Like Tinkerbell," he says, remembering his nieces' favorite movie. "Clap if you believe?"

"Do you want to cleanse this house or not?"

"Yes," he says reluctantly, since it seems like the right answer. He sighs. "Look, Addison, I know you haven't spent much time in this kitchen, or any kitchen, so I'll just break it to you now: we don't have a cauldron."

"Then what are we supposed to do?"

"There's that casserole dish from my mother. And it's not like you're not using it for anything else," he adds.

She makes a face at him. "Fine," she says, and then the white sage is resting neatly inside a blue casserole dish printed with red flowers.

Addison studies it with a critical eye. "It doesn't look very spiritual."

"What's the next step?" Derek asks, ignoring her comment.

"Light it on fire."

"What?"

"Derek, you have to _burn_ white sage."

"Says who?"

"Says Gaia. And if you were paying attention to her, you would have heard it too!"

Derek looks from the casserole dish with its dried out little bundle of sage, and then at Addison's stubbornly set face.

"Fine," he sighs, then pauses. "Is it safe?"

"Don't casserole dishes go in the oven?"

It's a decent point. Decent enough that he lets her talk him into finding the foot-long grill lighter he uses in the summertime.

"It's not lighting on fire," Addison frowns, then pokes the sage.

"What are you doing?" He swats her hand away. "You want to burn your hand?"

"Not particularly, no. But it's not working." Addison twirls a lock of hair around one finger. "Maybe we should go back to Pagan Urges."

 _Maybe not._

Derek grimaces. He's really not up for another trip to Gaia's lair, so he braces himself, channels the boy scout he used to be, and shoves the grill lighter between the dried out sticks of the sage until he finally sees a flame.

"You did it!"

Impulsively, she hugs him, and he hugs her back with one arm while he holds the casserole dish away from her body.

"Okay." She's studying the pamphlet again. "We're supposed to blow on it until it smokes." She leans over and hefts a puff of air onto the bundle. "Is it smoking?"

"I think so." Derek blows on it too, until a curl of white smoke wafts up between them.

"Perfect." Addison beams. "Now we just … wave our hands over the smoke _while visualizing the negative energy leaving your lives_ ," she reads. "No, not like that, you have to – get it all over your – just let me do it, will you?"

"What were you saying about negative energy?"

"Very funny." She scowls and then waves a handful of now-billowing fragrant smoke directly at him.

When he's finished coughing, and she's finished apologizing, and he's finished reminding her of Professor Galen's lectures on laboratory safety, they try again.

"You know, it tastes a little like … pot," Addison says after a moment.

Alarmed, Derek moves the casserole dish out of her way. "How much have you had to drink today?"

"Nothing," she says.

"I mean water."

She narrows her eyes. "Very funny. That was _one_ time. And it's not pot, it's sage."

"And now we smoked it," he says patiently, "so what's the next step?"

..  
..

"The next step is to set the house on fire," Pulaski recites in a bored tone. "Just like every other scorned lover on Valentine's Day. Not our first rodeo."

"We're not scorned lovers," Derek frowns.

"We're married," Addison reminds the gathered officers.

"You're something," Pulaski mutters. "Fine. Just … go on." Pulaski waves a meaty hand. "Tell us more about the open flame … and the open window."

Derek pauses. "How did you know we were going to open the window?"

The firefighters exchange a glance.

"… not our first rodeo," Pulaski repeats.

"Right."

..  
..

"Okay, now we're supposed to 'wave it to the four corners'." Addison pauses as she reads from the instructions. "Derek … what do you think the four corners _are_?"

"The four corners of the house?" He trails behind her, and she turns around to hurry him on.

"Maybe." Addison pauses, a little nervous. "I think we should start with the bedroom," she says quietly.

Derek looks less than enthusiastic.

"Please," she says quietly. "We'll just try it, and – look, you never have to go back in there, not after this. Just – can we just try?"

He sighs as if it's taking great effort, but indicates the bedroom door with one hand.

Relieved, she opens it.

"It's different," she says before she can stop herself. Flowered sheets on the bed – _flowered?_

And a duvet she doesn't recognize, some kind of velvety synthetic she'd never buy, in a color she'd never choose.

"This must be what people like now," she says uncertainly. "Or, you know, the realtor is just tacky."

"Addie." Derek looks like he wants to scold her, but he also looks amused.

She's seen that expression quite a few times over eleven years of marriage.

"The picture's gone," he says then, abruptly, looking a little embarrassed like he didn't mean to say it.

"The picture?"

She follows his gaze. He's right: their wedding picture is gone. All their pictures are gone, from the graduation photo with his arm slung around her shoulders – frizzy hair under his blue and black hat, and she's grinning up at him with two armloads of roses – to the one outside the door of this very brownstone the day they closed on it. They're bundled up in winter coats and the furry hat he used to tease her about; the tip of her nose is pink with cold.

She remembers that day. The house was big and beautiful and full of promise and he kissed her on the stoop after the realtor snapped the picture, his lips warm on her cheek. The first thing they made, in the kitchen she would rarely use, was hot chocolate.

Derek made it, actually.

He made it while she sat on the counter in her underwear and cheered him on, and they laughed and poured shots into the sweet drinks and made plans for the future.

"Addie?"

"I was just thinking." She glances at him. "You, um, you ready?"

"I don't know. What do I have to do?"

"First we do the four corners thing again." Addison raises the sage to direct it. "And we do this … chant thing. 'Air, fire, water, earth. Cleanse, dismiss, dispel, disperse.'"

Derek frowns. "Is that supposed to rhyme? It doesn't rhyme."

"Derek."

"Earth. Disperse. That only rhymes if you're Rachel," he smirks a little, naming their niece whose two front teeth fell out at the same time and haven't quite grown in yet.

"Derek!"

"Okay, okay." He sighs and, with a very put-upon expression, reads the non-rhyming words with her."

"Thank you." Addison smiles a little and then turns back to the pamphlet. "Now we put the sage down in the middle of the room," she says, reading along. "We're supposed to put it right on the surface of the … ." Her voice trails off, and she feels her cheeks pinkening.

Reluctantly, she points to the bed.

Derek raises his eyebrows.

"You said you'd try."

"I know." He sighs. Then he sets the casserole dish down in the middle of the bed, on the rather unpleasantly lilac duvet.

"We're supposed to close our eyes," Addison reads. She flushes a little at her recollection of those same words earlier this afternoon, on the floor of Derek's office. It feels like a hundred years ago.

This bedroom feels hot and tight with the door closed, almost – coffin-like, and she shudders.

"Can you open a window?"

"Why?"

"It's stuffy in here," Addison says.

He shoulders open the window – the left one always stuck, from the time they moved in. They were going to chip the paint at the base.

They were going to do a lot of things they never got around to.

Her memory flickers to the brightly-colored children's rooms, the train sets and the canopies. Even if they're just a realtors props … they looked so real.

"Now we close our eyes," she dictates.

When she closes hers, she sees the last time they were together in this room.

She sees the memory in blots of misery, fearful racing pulse as she paced behind her furious husband, desperately trying to get him to listen.

What does he see, she wonders?

Guilt floods her; she doesn't have to wonder long. She knows perfectly well what he walked in on. And she knows perfectly well whose fault it was.

She slits her eyes open; Derek's are closed – he's a good rule-follower and she appreciates that, but his face is expressive even with his eyes shut and it doesn't help her guilt.

Or the fact that he still doesn't know the whole story.

Mark's words from earlier echo in her ears: _Spend what, the next fifty years hoping your husband doesn't find out?_

He was disgusted with her, Mark. _Some marriage_ , that's what he said, before he shifted to trying to charm her again.

She needs him out of here. She needs the memory of Mark Sloan out of her bedroom.

Now.

She waves her hands faster, hoping the sage will do the trick.

A gust of wind pours through the window, helping her out.

"Addison." Derek's eyes are open now, focused on the casserole dish of sage. "Should the flame be that high?"

"I don't know. Maybe it means it's working." She studies the dish. The sage smell is working its way around the room, making her feel logy.

"Do you feel anything?" she asks Derek hopefully.

He looks, for a minute, like he feels sorry for her, and she swallows hard. Forcing herself to take a chance, she joins him at the window, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.

"You remember our first night in this room?" she asks softly.

His body stiffens next to hers, but he doesn't pull away.

She closes her eyes, letting the cool breeze waft the sage around with her memories. They moved in in the winter with salt-dusted icy steps and a pile of insulated boots at the door. Christmas was over but it didn't matter: they hung garlands of fir everywhere they could, looping it through the balustrade she fell in love with the first time they visited. He surprised her with a handful of mistletoe: he planned to hang it from the doorway, that's what he said, but it never made it that far; they tumbled onto the white flannel sheets she loved – they reminded her of cozy nights at the cottage in childhood winters, when she and Archer would stay up late and whisper – and Derek tolerated, because he loved her. He teased her endlessly with that handful of mistletoe, the leaves prickling the nerves on her ribcage, the backs of her legs, and every time she turned to see what he was doing she'd have to stop and kiss him. Rules are rules, after all. They were both half-laughing by the time his eyes darkened with intent and he tossed the mistletoe aside. _We're home_ , that's what she remembers him saying, when she closed her eyes and let the waves of sensation wash over her. They rinsed off together in the roomy shower of the master bath and she remembers laughing into the fragrant water. _Derek … we have a house_ , she said, and he laughed too. _We do indeed have a house._

"I remember," he says quietly.

Encouraged, she leans her head on his shoulder. The breeze lifts her hair and she shivers a little.

"Cold?" he asks, turning to look at her.

 _Not when you look at me like that._

"A little," she says.

"You want me to close the window?"

Slowly, she shakes her head.

..  
..

"Look, I'm real happy to hear you got the plumbing working again, so to speak, but I'm still not sure how this is relevant."

"I didn't get it working again." Derek flushes, tripping a little over his words. "I mean – "

" – the old war wound is still giving you trouble," Pulaski says solemnly. "Gotcha. I'll make sure to include that in the report."

"Only if you want to." Derek looks nervously over his shoulder. Addison is talking privately to Liang again, showing her something with the first finger of her right hand and her thumb. Something small.

Pulaski is watching with sympathy. "Short memories," he says. "Women always have short memories when it suits them."

..

" … tiny," Addison is telling Liang.

"Really?"

"Seriously tiny. Maybe six inches. A lot smaller than you'd expect."

"Six inches doesn't sound that tiny."

"For a white sage bundle that cost eighty dollars?" Addison sighs. "The point is, I had no idea it was going to catch fire."

Liang furrows her brow under the blue hat. "But you … _lit it on fire_ ," she says.

"Right." Addison clears her throat, blushing a little. "I mean, other than that."

"And you were watching it the whole time," Liang prompts.

"Right," Addison says again, woodenly. "The whole time."

..  
..

"He's still not working." Derek follows the movement of his wife's hands – she's faster at his getting his pants undone than he is, but then again he rarely has anything as interesting in mind as she does when he's undressing himself.

" _It_ ," Addison corrects him, "and I don't care because _you_ are working. You are, right?"

He pulls her close like he's testing it out, then nods.

"Good. That's all that matters. And anyway, maybe it just needs more sage."

"More sage?" His eyebrows lift.

"More … exposure to the sage." She makes short work of his clothes. "You'll see."

He doesn't, not yet, but then she's arching her back to pull her own shirt over her head and he's fully distracted.

"Leave it on," he says when she reaches for the clasp of her bra.

"Really?"

"For now, yes. Forever, no." He nudges the lace with his nose as he explores the fabric with both hands and she lets a little sigh escape. He's good.

He's good enough that she's surrendered to him even after the torture earlier – okay, fine, torture she willingly consented to and enjoyed quite a bit, but torture nonetheless. The sage ritual calmed her down but his hands on her, now, are reawakening everything he never finished earlier. It's as if the sage flame itself is licking at her, heating the core of her body. The room feels hot. His skin feels hot against her. His fingers burn, scraping lace down the length of her legs and she can't take it anymore, she has to feel everything. Now. She rips her bra off, ignoring his previous request, wanting to feel his skin everywhere.

"So impatient," he teases her.

"You knew that when you married me."

"I knew a lot of things when I married you."

His warm insistent mouth is speeding the pulse between her thighs.

She pulls back, with some effort, and cups his face in her hands. "I can't take that much," she confesses.

"See, there, I disagree," he says. His tone is light but his eyes are warm and understanding. He's massaging her gently, building slow pressure; she lets him take over, take her weight, but she backs into the windowsill and squeaks at the cold surface on her bare skin.

"Sorry." He kisses her shoulder. He's looking around the room, trying to find someplace to – put her, for lack of a better term, even though it makes her cheeks flush. He hasn't stopped touching her while he looks, either, which is making other things flush.

"The dresser," she pants, pointing.

But another one of those weirdly wholesome blond family stock photos is perched there now, and she wrinkles her nose.

"Let's go back to the office." She wraps her arms around his neck. "Finish what we started. It's too cold in here anyway."

"We need to watch the sage," he reminds her.

Okay, but _she_ needs something else.

She needs it badly.

Badly enough to drag him down to the floor with her, away from the chill of the window, laughing and wincing a little when her elbow comes into contact with the floorboards. He massages the sting from her funny bone with a practiced hand while she stretches underneath him, giving him enough a show to thank him for the impromptu medical care. When she's recovered, he grins at her and then slides down her body and –

Finally.

Finally, finally, _finally._

"Addison!"

"What?"

He sounds like he's calling her from very far away.

"I need oxygen."

"Oh. Sorry."

She's doing her best, she really is, but it's impossible to stay still the way he's touching her, even though – objectively speaking – she does want him to have oxygen.

And she doesn't want him to stop.

He seems to be having more trouble than usual muscling her down – it must be the angle, because he finally kneels up between her legs, reaches back and opens the bedroom door so they can extend out into the hall. With more space, they get back to a welcome rhythm.

She arches her back to bring herself closer in contact with him – _god_ , but he's good at this, it was nothing short of cruel to torment her before. He has his hands under her, scooping her closer. And then she's arching again, and he's _scooping_ again, and she has to get closer, closer, _closer_ , his fingers are doing something she can't see and his tongue is doing something that might kill her and then she's screaming something she thinks must be spiritual enough even for Pagan Urges, sitting straight up and grabbing him hard so that he has to roll them _both_ over, and that's how she ends up sitting dizzily in the hall just outside their bedroom feeling like cartoon stars are circling her head.

When she can focus again, Derek is sitting right across from her, naked, looking smug.

"You're welcome," he says.

She tries to give him a stern look, but moving any of her muscles seems like a lot right now. She settles for flopping against him instead. He pulls her into his lap and they sit like that while she catches her breath, Derek running his fingers through her sweat-dampened hair.

Sage wafts through the open bedroom door on a strong breeze that makes her shiver.

"Still cold?" Derek raises his eyebrows.

"Get me a blanket." She curls in closer to him. "I need a nap."

He laughs a little and pulls her in tighter. He feels so warm.

Her eyes are drooping shut; she can't help it. And for all he was teasing her before, she can feel his head getting heavier against hers too.

She's drifting in the fragrant smoke, dreaming of something – the little match girl? Maybe? Something warm.

She's warm.

It's warm now.

It's … too warm.

"Derek."

"Mm."

She pushes at the solid wall of him. It doesn't smell like sage anymore.

It smells like …

It smells like _smoke._

"Derek!"

He's awake at her panicked cry and then he's yanking both of them to their feet; it's all happening very fast – the bedroom _is_ hot, there are orange flames licking at that awful lilac duvet and clouds of thick grey smoke. A gust of cold air blows in from outside and Addison watches in horror as the flames leap higher in response.

Their bed is on fire.

 _Their bed is on fire._

… literally, not like the other times.

"The window." She claws at Derek's arm where he's holding her up, her words coming in panicked gasps. "Derek, the window – we have to close it – have to starve the fire."

"Addison!" She makes it two steps before he grabs her arm. "Are you crazy? You can't walk into a fire."

"Close the door at least," she begs him, but she doesn't have to – the next gust of wind is strong enough to slam the bedroom door itself.

And then she can't see the bedroom door anymore, can't see anything except wisps of smoke and the blur of her own walls – Derek's grip on her arm is iron as she stumbles down the stairs behind him – she doesn't have a choice.

"Derek, stop!"

He's reaching for the front door.

"I need clothes!" she cries, panicked. "I'm naked!" She wheels around, taking advantage of his distraction to dart back to the kitchen for her suitcase. There are clothes here – she's bent over in the bag, rooting for something to wear, coughing a little, when he grabs her and jerks her upright.

"Addison, what the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?"

"No, I'm _naked_!"

"So am I, but it's better than being dead! Move!" he yells, shoving her toward the kitchen door.

"A coat, at least – " she grabs for the first thing her fingers brush, but it's a dishtowel.

"Addison!"

He grabs her harder when she tries to pull away, shaking her a little when she tries to reach for her bag again and barking, _leave it, damn it_ , and then he's dragging her across the first floor, toward the front door. He manages to get the door open while she struggles but she shrieks when the first gust of cold air hits her.

"No!" She fumbles desperately for the doorframe to hold on. "Derek, please!"

He curses, he doesn't let go of her, but she does feel something warm wrap around her shoulders and then he's shoving her outside – she's barefoot, wincing at the cold damp step.

"Move," he barks at her; he's already called 911, he must grabbed the cordless on the way out because she can hear his words through a dizzying haze. She's stumbling down another set of steps, barefoot, twisting her ankle a little but he doesn't let her fall.

She feels the sidewalk under her bare feet. Her eyes are squeezed tightly shut.

"It's okay," he says from somewhere very close but she doesn't open her eyes.

She can't.

It's a bad dream. It has to be.

"Addie, it's okay." He's holding her tightly against him now. He's the only thing that feels real. Not the cold damp sidewalk under her feet, not the smell of smoke in the air. Nothing but him.

"We're okay," he says, and the fabric against her is his, she realizes she's wearing his trench coat and nothing else and he's … not wearing anything at all, he got her clothes instead of him and she just wraps her arms around his waist and holds on tightly as sirens cut through the night.

..  
..

" … and that's what happened." Addison tucks her hair behind her ears with the hand not holding the emergency blanket. "Well. The firemen got here and … did their thing. For which we're very grateful," she adds.

Derek is resting his hand on her back. "Very grateful," he echoes. "Did they – were you able to clear the house?"

Brennan looks at his partner and then nods. "You were very lucky," he says. "There was more smoke than fire," he reports, "but it was contained for the most part to the master bedroom."

"That's good." Addison looks at Derek. "That's good, right?"

"That's good," the fireman says. "The house is stable. The fire was localized to the bed, actually – "

Now Addison tries very hard not to look at Derek.

" – but it's a nice solid wood – "

"Antique," Addison says modestly, and Derek nudges her with his knee, making a _shh_ gesture with one finger.

" – which got you some burn time. All in all, you'll need a contractor and you're gonna want to sand down those floors … but you can live in the house while you do it. Just not in that room."

Addison nods, taking this in. "The house is safe," she repeats, glancing at Derek.

"The house is safe," the fireman says.

"So does that mean – we can go back inside?" Addison looks uncertainly at Pulaski and Liang. "Are we free to go? Did you – get the deed or whatever?"

"Yes, we got the _deed or whatever_ ," Pulaski says, pronouncing the words with disdain. He gestures to a uniformed officer who strides up to show him something on a handheld electronic device. Pulaski sighs.

"And?" Addison leans forward nervously, even though she knows perfectly well who owns the brownstone..

"And it's definitely your house," the officer says to her. He gives Pulaski an apologetic look. "Got a copy of the deed right here … and _Derek and Addison Shepherd_ are the titleholders."

"Addison and Derek," she corrects automatically, Derek nudging her in response with a shake of his head.

"So we can't bring them in on a B&E if they own the property," Pulaski says, sounding disappointed. His eyes brighten. "What about the domestic? Liang?"

"She said there was no domestic." Liang points to Addison, who smiles in response.

Pulaski frowns. "Her lip looks swollen."

Addison frees a hand to touch her lip with her finger.

"That was an accident," she says.

"Mm-hm. And then there's the bruise on her back."

"How did you – oh." Addison shifts the blanket. "That's from a toy train," she says.

"Of course it is."

"It is!"

"Fine. What about the scratches on your hands? Defensive wounds?" The officer points.

"Defensive – no, those are from crawling through the hedge."

"… when you weren't breaking into the house."

Addison sits up a little straighter. "Correct."

"And what about the stairs?"

"The stairs?"

"That witness who was passing by said he was dragging her out the door," Pulaski points out. He looks at his pad and starts to read aloud. "'That naked burglar was shoving her – practically catapulted her down the stairs.'" he pauses for effect.

"The _naked burglar_?" Derek repeats, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, they hadn't seen the deed yet," Addison reminds him, smiling a little when he frowns at her.

" 'Practically catapulted,'" Pulaski reads again. " _Catapulted._ Down the stairs – you didn't do that?"

"I did do that," Derek admits. "Well. Not the catapult part, but the rest of it. The … practically. And the shoving. But that's because she was trying to run back _in_ the house. Which was on fire." He says the last two sentences extra loudly and clearly – Addison rolls her eyes; her husband couldn't be more obviously currying favor with the firefighters if he were holding up an actual blinking-light APPLAUSE sign.

It works, too: Addison scowls as the two firefighters nod assent and give her _shame on you_ head-shakes.

Addison leans her head closer to her husband's so only he can hear her. "I'm glad you're so popular with the firemen," she whispers. "I hope they're _also_ willing to – " and she lowers her voice even further, so Derek will have to strain to hear as she summarizes, graphically if not in as great detail as she would under other circumstances, what she planned to do to him that evening.

Derek's cheeks flush red.

" … at least an hour," she continues, "that is, if nothing's broken before then."

She smiles sweetly at Derek. "You were saying, honey?"

He clears his throat. "Yes, well. I was … dragging her, a little, but – " He tries to remember his train of thought. "But she – the house was on fire." He regains his momentum. "She wanted to put her clothes on first!"

"Can you really blame me?" Addison hisses.

"I can blame you," Brennan says darkly. He turns to Addison. "You know how stupid it is to go back for things when the house is on fire?"

"It was a tiny fire," she says defensively. "Barely a fire."

"It was not a tiny fire," Derek retorts.

"I got kindergarteners up and down this city who know better than to go back into a burning house," Brennan says. "Tiny fire or not."

He glares at Addison long enough for her to shrink a little and, in spite of himself, Derek wraps an arm around her shoulders.

"In her defense," Derek says, and then finds himself having to search for an end to the sentence. "… she was naked," he says finally.

"Seems like a funny defense for a couple of convicted sex maniacs."

" _Accused_ sex maniacs," Addison says with dignity. "Innocent until proven guilty."

Pulaski snorts audibly at the word _innocent_ , but she chooses to ignore it.

"So – do you think we can go? Officers?" Addison adopts the same tone and facial expression she used to use in boarding school to explain why her bed hadn't been slept in. "We truly appreciate your help. I don't know where we'd be without New York's Fin – "

"Would you _stop_ laying it on so thick?" Derek hisses in her ear and she whips around to glare at him in response.

Pulaski exchanges a glance with Liang, then grimaces at Addison. "If you're saying he didn't hurt you … ."

"No," Addison says immediately. "Well, not then … and not _there_ either – ow!" She turns on Derek, annoyed, when he elbows her. "He hurt me just now," she complains.

Pulaski looks at them. "I didn't see anything," he says woodenly. "Liang, you see anything?"

"No, sir," she agrees firmly; her dark eyes are very cold. Addison assumes she's still upset over Mark. _Join the club, Officer Liang._

"Then I guess it's settled," Pulaski says grouchily.

Addison beams. "And the house is cleared. Right?" she confirms.

The firefighters nod.

"You saw the deed," she smiles at the police officers, "and you cleared the house," she turns her smile on the firefighters. "So – if there's nothing further keeping us here, officers, we'd really, _really_ like to go back inside."

..

It works.

It actually _works_.

The officers wave them back toward the house somewhat reluctantly with a final lecture on fire safety.

The squad cars drive off with zero Shepherds inside.

They're free.

 _Free._

Addison climbs the steps of the brownstone ahead of him. If it's not his imagination, she's walking more slowly than usual. She must be exhausted.

Or …

He stops in place.

"Derek … are you coming?" Addison turns back to him, gazing seductively over her shoulder, letting the blue emergency blanket fall just a little low on her shoulders.

He's about to snap at her for making light of his pain, when he realizes –

Yes, there it is, as the blanket slips even a little lower.

Apparently – mercifully, blessedly, relievedly – the answer to her question is _yes_.

Yes, _finally._

Her face lights up when he relays this – as excited as he is – and if she lets the blanket fall fully to the ground a moment before he gets the front door all the way closed, he can't exactly hold it against her.

Not tonight, anyway.

Tonight they're in their old home, everything is … running smoothly again, they didn't burn the house down, and his very naked wife is currently leading him up the stairs – no, sitting down _on_ the stairs to the second floor, and he gulps as he remembers what she whispered to him while they were talking to law enforcement.

"Well?" She grins at him, eyes heavy lidded with anticipation. "Do you need a printed invitation, or – " and then she squeals as he joins her, making good on his half of the bargain.

* * *

 _Hurrah! Derek's system is up and running again and all is right with the world! (Anyone who watched Private Practice know what my inspiration was for Addison's blanket-drop in the last scene?) And as for those of you who are suggesting that someone else is living in the brownstone ... I'm shocked. SHOCKED._

 _Also: do as I say, not as Addek did: please practice fire safety this Christmas season and all year round._

 _Finally, thank you for reading! Did you enjoy? Remember that (musical cue) all I want for Christmas is revieeeeeews._ _Until next time ... an Addek Christmas to all, and to all an Addek night!_


	13. goldilocks

**A/N: Longest chapter yet, _insanely_ long, on this freezing cold Monday. Nothing like a little self-indulgent, cheerfully filthy Addek - with just enough angst to remember who we're dealing with - to make the world go round. Am I right?  
**

 **When we last left our insatiable heroes, they were headed back into the brownstone after burning down their bed/bedroom, Derek having just recovered from his brief but dramatic ... ailment.**

 **I had fun writing this - and I hope you have fun reading it!**

* * *

 **Six Miles High, Part Thirteen:  
 _Goldilocks_**

* * *

Addison Shepherd wakes up sore.

… not sore like _that._ Well, actually, a little sore like that. But that's to be expected after Derek's miraculous recovery the night before.

What she didn't expect, as she blinks her way into bleary alertness, was the ache in her neck, as if she's been sleeping strangely. At first, she's not sure where she is. The surface under her is half-hard, half … less hard, but that's half her husband and half whatever she's sleeping _on_ that she can't quite identify, except that it's not particularly comfortable.

"Derek." She nudges the still-sleeping lump next to her. "Derek … wake up."

When he doesn't wake up, she finally leans close to his face and repeats her words louder this time. "Derek – wake up!"

His eyes fly open to see her directly over him. "What's wrong – fire – " he grabs for her and she shakes her head quickly.

"No, it's okay, the fire's out. But … my neck hurts."

"Oh, well, as long as it's an emergency." He frowns at her, fully awake now.

"It's urgent," she insists. " _What_ are we sleeping on?"

Derek looks amused. "You don't remember?"

Slowly, it comes back to her. Yes, of course – they were trying to figure out where to sleep last night, after getting … reacquainted … left them both exhausted.

"We couldn't sleep in the master bedroom," she recalls, "because it was condemned by the FDNY."

He nods.

"And we couldn't sleep in the one guest bedroom because a princess exploded in it … and the other because it's an MTA vehicular nightmare."

"Exactly," he says.

She runs a hand over the rubbery surface of the air mattress, then glances around the living room.

"So this was our solution? I really agreed to this?"

"You did," Derek says, "but in fairness, you probably would have agreed to just about anything at that point."

Her cheeks flush.

"I didn't even know we had an air mattress."

"Me neither," Derek says, "but it was in the basement. Must be old, or maybe it's Amy's. I don't think the realtor would bother with it."

Addison nods, too busy feeling out the mattress to ponder its provenance.

It's stiff and rubbery and – somewhat like sleeping on a beach ball.

"It was your idea," she confirms with Derek. "The mattress?"

He nods.

"So it's your fault my neck is sore."

His mouth opens – she's expecting him to say, _well, it's your fault that …_ as they work their way back through the series of mishaps that's characterized this New York trip, all the way to its being his fault for asking her out, her fault for looking so cute in her safety goggles, his fault they evolved into homo sapiens in the first place … and so forth.

But he doesn't.

He just turns her away from him, places one warm hand on the back of her neck and uses the other to brace her shoulder until she's humming with a mixture of pleasure and relief.

"No complaints?" he asks teasingly, pausing his massage.

"Just that you stopped."

He un-stops, then, and by the time he finishes the ache in her neck has mellowed and he's put those talented hands to even better use, and she's returned the favor, and they're lying side by side on the mattress, catching their breath in tandem.

"I feel like I'm floating," Addison says, turning her head a little to see his familiar profile. "Actually, not floating … sinking."

"Well," Derek says modestly, "I _am_ pretty good at this."

"No, I mean really sinking – Derek, don't you feel that?"

He rolls to the side and that movement is enough to finish it off: there's a loud whistle of air as the mattress – previously uncomfortable, but at least reasonably supportive, deflates into nothing more than a flat piece of rubber covered in rather sweaty sheets.

"Ow." Addison reaches back to rub her tailbone.

"Well ... we broke another bed."

"Technically, we didn't break the bed in the hotel room," Addison reminds him. "We broke the wall _behind_ the bed."

"Ah." He props himself up on his elbow, then winces as the hardwood floor offers little padding. They do a little shifting until he has enough sheets under him not to feel quite so much like his joints are being hammered with a bone mallet, and she's resting against his body. "But I didn't mean the hotel bed," he clarifies. "Don't you remember the bed in the – "

" – oh, that bed." She frowns. "It was poorly constructed, anyway."

"Wasn't it an antique that survived the Revolutionary War?"

"So it was past its prime, then," she says with dignity. "And anyway, the museum director agreed not to pursue it after we donated funds for the new wing, didn't he?"

"He did," Derek admits, "but he also said it was _one of a kind._ "

"Then it came to a fitting end, anyway," Addison says, "because that day was pretty _one of a kind_ already. Don't you remember, that was when we – "

She leans forward to whisper in his ear.

His eyes widen.

"Really? That day?"

"Mm-hm." She nods.

"But what about – "

"No, that was the left side. And anyway, this was in English, plus – " her voice drops to a whisper again and she continues. " – underneath," she finishes, her hand moving in a circle to help him remember.

"Oh, of course. That's why I had tendinitis."

She leans back against him, curling a little so she's wrapped around his side. "It was a nice wing, though."

"The one we defiled, or the one we dedicated?"

"Both?" She tips her head up to kiss his jaw.

He looks like he's trying not to laugh – and then he tangles his hand in her hair and raises an eyebrow.

"I think we should pace ourselves today."

"Pace ourselves?" Her eyes widen.

"Take breaks, that sort of thing."

"I don't understand."

But before he can explain, her stomach emits a loud, hungry growl.

" … we didn't eat dinner last night," she guesses.

"No, we didn't." Derek shakes his head. "I tried to get you to eat," he adds, "I even looked in the cabinet to see if our takeout menus were still there but you said something about my shoulders – "

" – from behind." She sighs a little, remembering. "It was a nice view."

"But not a nice dinner."

"We can eat anytime, though."

"You'd think." Derek is playing with a strand of her hair. "But when I offered to go pick something up, you attacked me in the hallway."

"I did not _attack_ you," Addison says in a firm tone. "I was kissing you goodbye."

" ... there?" he asks meaningfully.

She doesn't respond, but her hand that's been resting on his chest starts trailing down his ribcage.

"No." He covers her hand with his, doing his best to ignore the rest of her currently pressed against him. "We need to eat something first."

"Are you sure?" she asks – slow and sultry, her lips close to his ear – before her stomach growls again, even louder this time, if that's possible.

"Now I am." He ducks, blocking her hand when she goes to swat him. "Come on, Addie. Let's get something to eat. Everything else can wait."

That's easy for him to say. He's not the one in her position, lying against his body with one of her thighs draped over his. She's the one with the itch that needs to be scratched, and if she could just –

"Addison, do you mind? … don't answer that," he adds. He stands with some effort, having to untangle her first, and then leans down to help her to her feet.

"Fine." She scowls, folding her arms.

Derek has the nerve to look amused. "Go put some clothes on," he says, giving her a kiss far too chaste for her liking. "There may still be some people in this city who haven't seen you naked."

 _Give it time_ , that's what Savvy and Weiss would probably say.

They can be so judgmental.

..

"God, this is good." She closes her eyes, sated. "It's even better than I remembered."

"Is it messier than you remembered, too?" Derek asks, smiling as he swipes a finger along the corner of her mouth.

"That … and bigger." She smiles back at him, moving her jaw a little to ease the beginnings of an ache.

"I've definitely seen you put away bigger."

"Did I get this greasy when I did it?"

"Probably," Derek says, "but that was the deal – right?"

"Well …. "

She was still pouting a little at the loss of contact when they left the brownstone – after three checks that Addison had the key in her back pocket – but Derek promised her they could wash off their breakfast sandwiches with a leisurely shower when they returned.

But she forgot just how big … and messy … and salty … and filling they would be.

"Now I'm too full to shower," she complains.

He laughs a little, leaning back against the bench as a cool breeze wafts the heady scent of bacon, egg, and cheese. "You can digest on the walk home."

"True." She leans against him. "And anyway, the good shower is condemned."

"There are other showers in the house."

"Barely," she sighs.

"I think we can make do."

… they make more than that.

..

"I think it actually looks like an office again," Derek announces, standing in the middle of the room to admire the train-free floor. Together, they'd managed to scoop up all of the various trains and tracks and sex injuries waiting to happen and delivered them into the carefully staged children's rooms.

It took a while, of course: there was a lot of bending over to pick up toys and a lot of resulting distraction and one longing glance at the leaded windows overlooking the park before Derek reminded her that these were definitely _not_ high-tech privacy windows, and they weren't really in a position to try to debate the finer points of their sex probation as to whether it counts as public if they're in their own home _but_ a fifteen-person tour group from Santa Fe has an unobstructed view of their coupling.

"We did a good job," Addison agrees. She rests both her hands on his bare chest and he shivers a little.

"You're freezing."

"So warm me up."

"If you're not warm after what we just did … ."

But he doesn't finish the sentence before her lips are on his, much warmer than her hands, and then he's fitted his palms to the backs of her legs, lifting her against his body.

There are too many warm points of contact now to count, from the silken skin on the insides of her thighs to the impossibly soft curves pressed against his chest, to her heated mouth connected with his and working its way down his jaw. She wriggles a little in his arms and it's as if she's lit each of those contact points on fire.

… so much for pacing themselves; he'll be lucky to last another five minutes the way she's gripping him with her legs, and he staggers a little – it's a sign of how distracted he has her that she doesn't even stop to accuse him of thinking she's fat. She just pulls a little at the hair on the base of his skull, making the kind of soft sounds close to his ear that are pretty much impossible to ignore.

He just needs somewhere to brace –

"Window," she warns him, panting, when she sees him surveying the room for his next move.

"Wall," he assures her, and she squeaks a little when her back hits flat against it – it must be cold, but it won't be for long at this rate. She pushes on his shoulders to pull herself up a bit, readjusting both their angles in the process and sending shockwaves of sensation the length of his body. The world narrows to just the two of them – he can't believe he said the word _freezing_ in connection with her: her body is hot and fevered against his, her head tipped back to give him access to her neck – everything is connected now; his teeth scrape her throat, the salty skin of her sweat-dampened jaw and her thighs tighten on him in response, he braces her against the wall to fit a hand between them, adjusting both of them to focus solely on her for just long enough that she shudders against him, pulsations of pressure throwing him over the edge.

For a few long moments afterwards they both just breathe in staggered patterns, both her hands gripping his neck, foreheads pressed together.

Then she draws back, laughing a little. "Did you say wall?"

"I did say wall."

"I'm glad you said wall." She kisses him, far more gently this time, wincing just a little as he eases out of her and sets her down, carefully, on shaking legs.

"Well, it's not exactly the bathroom of a 767 in mid-flight," he admits, "but it's a classic for a reason."

"True." She leans back against the wall now; apparently he's tired her out, and looks up at him from under her lashes. "The only problem … is that now we need another shower."

"Who says that's a problem?"

… he has a point.

..

"We were going to do something, in the brownstone," Addison says tiredly. She's wearing about half a towel, stretched out on the living room couch in one of the few areas they've deemed un-staged enough for them.

"We were?" Derek asks, sounding equally tired. He's currently stretched out on the same couch, which means that his wife is technically stretched out on top of him, the damp towel that's more for show at this point trailing from between their bodies down to the hardwood floor.

"Mm." She shifts a little in his arms, the towel falling to the floor, so she can curl up against him more comfortably. "Clean or … pack or something."

"Really?" He's sifting through her damp hair. It's long and fragrant and _everywhere_ , filling his senses; they're taking a much-needed break but his body isn't necessarily complying … it can't seem to help perking up a little at the scent.

The fact that her damp naked body is sprawled across his doesn't hurt either, but at this point it's fair to say he's gotten used to that.

"The basement," she murmurs. "Your record collection."

"Oh, that." He swipes a handful of fragrant locks away from her neck so can press his lips to the soft skin her hair was hiding.

"Yeah." She shifts under him, her slow smile half sated and half plain old predatory. "… but we can just deal with them later, or tell the realtor – "

"The realtor?" He sits half up, horrified. "Addison. The realtor is not allowed to touch my records."

"Derek – "

"You did tell her she's not allowed to touch my records, right?"

"I did," she says.

"And my motorcycle," he adds. "You remember our deal – "

" – you don't ride it, I don't complain if you keep it. Yes, I remember. And I did tell the realtor, I promise. It's just – "

"Just what?"

"Just the realtor seems to have taken a pretty free hand with the rest of the place, so maybe we should – Derek!"

He's stood up so fast that she practically falls onto the floor.

"Sorry," he says hastily. "But I think we should go down the basement and check on our things."

"Okay," she says as if that wasn't her intention all along.

But even if it was – and even if she was being a _teensy_ bit manipulative making him think it was his idea – she's a little nervous.

It's not that she doesn't want to go through their things. She knows they need to do it, and soon, particularly since the realtor seems to be either overly enthusiastic or possibly drunk. But the basement has so much of their shared history in it, and she doesn't just mean the imported sex swing from Brazil.

(Although she wouldn't mind finding that swing. You know … if it comes up.)

This New York trip has been such a whirlwind of memories and sex and denial and sex and nostalgia and sex and … well … sex. But every time they've ventured too close to the things that tore them apart, it hasn't gone well.

And that's thing _s_ plural, not just the one thing. She's not quite sure Derek would agree with that, which is another issue.

Is it any wonder sex is the better alternative?

"Addie." Derek moves his fingers in front of her face. "You're miles away."

"Six miles?" she jokes weakly.

"Let's go to the basement," he urges.

"Shouldn't we put on clothes first?" she asks.

Derek frowns. "Let's not get crazy."

Before she can respond he's already fitted his hand into hers and started pulling her toward the basement door; with no real choice, she follows him, prepared for the worst.

..

"Derek, stop," she pleads.

"No."

"You're being _cruel_."

"You deserve it," he says with no trace of remorse. "Keeping a secret like that for this long."

Her husband's face blurs in front of her teary eyes. "Okay. I may deserve something, but this – this is too much."

"You lied to me," he says. "These are the consequences."

"Derek, I didn't mean to lie!" She swipes at the moisture in her eyes; she would probably sound more convincing if she could just stop –

"You didn't mean to lie?" He advances on her. "You're telling me you thought you were being truthful when you said _the package never arrived?_ "

"I was … stretching the truth?"

"And stop laughing," he scolds her as more tears of laughter build up in her eyes – though he's being a bit hypocritical, especially for someone who's currently holding up a pair of black, lacy pants … that are missing a few important parts on both sides.

"Fine, I knew the package arrived, but when I opened it I didn't think the outfits would look good on us and – what are you doing?" she asks, panicking, as he digs in the box and approaches her again.

"Fair's fair," he says.

"How is this _fair?_ "

"Put it on."

"Fine," she scowls, "but it's not going to look good."

And it's freaking complicated – not even her brain surgeon husband, oh did you not know he was a brain surgeon? – seems to be able to figure out how to fasten a bra that's made entirely of bits of skimpy lace and even lacier straps.

"Why did I think this was a good idea?" she moans. "I was so young and stupid."

"You ordered them for our eighth anniversary," he reminds her. " _Young_ is a bit of a stretch, don't you think?"

Oh, she's going to _kill_ him.

So the straps-only-totally-impractical bra may be impossible to fasten, but some of the uselessly dangling strips of lace do come in handy for attempting to seek revenge. Derek just laughs, trapping her hands, then holds her away from him, studying her outfit.

"This is worse than Alice's _Rent_ costume," she scowls.

"You think?" Derek's eyes skim over the bra-if-you-can-call-it-that, it's really more a cross between a very non-modest bustier and a black widow's nest.

"It covers less," she points out.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Don't you dare." She points a finger at him. "You're not allowed to _like_ it. It's going in the trash."

"Don't point at me."

She points a second finger instead of lowering the first. "Enjoy it now, because I'm done with lace after this trip – hey!"

He's hooked into two of the dangling straps and pulled her close. "I do like all the handles," he muses. "Very convenient."

She'd protest but he's moved both the straps into one hand to hold her in place and he's using the other hand to cup the side of her face, brushing away her hair that's now dried damp and wild and then lowering his head for what – considering her current clothing and his current lack of same – is pretty _soft and gentle._

Their lawyer would be proud.

She mentions that to Derek, who laughs against her mouth before pulling back and reminding her that they're currently mostly naked save for some very ill-advised bondage gear, in the basement of the home they set on fire the night before in an attempt to rid it of bad juju.

"Still, though." She tips her head back, smiling up at him. "Don't you think that Carter – "

"Enough about Carter." He frowns at her. "You're not wearing enough clothing to talk about Carter."

"Seriously?" Her eyes widen. "Derek … please don't tell me you think _Carter Black_ is my type."

His face hardens – not the jokingly stern expression from before.

"Normally … I wouldn't have thought Carter Black is your type," he says coolly.

She pulls away before he can finish the thought: _I wouldn't have thought Mark Sloan was your type either._

"Derek, if you want to talk about this, we can talk about it," she says unsteadily, her voice shaking a little. "But I'd like to be wearing more clothes when we do it, and I'd like a little warning instead of just a cheap shot."

His mouth opens and she braces herself to be yelled at, or at least snapped at, but then it closes again.

"You're right," he says simply.

"I am?"

"You are." He holds out his arms and she decides to ignore the fact that he's completely naked save a pair of battered flip flops they found down here that she's fairly certain were his shower shoes in medical school, and steps into them.

"Derek?" she asks, her voice muffled by his bare shoulder.

"Hm?" He's rubbing the parts of her back he can locate between the complicated lacy straps.

"Are you hugging me because you're sorry, or because you're curious about this awful … lace thing and you're trying to cop a feel?"

Gently, he pushes her back, holding her by both shoulders. His blue eyes are very soft.

"Sixty-forty?" he offers.

"Derek!"

"Fine, forty-sixty."

They're both laughing, though; he pulls her into him again and she lets him, enjoying the closeness, before they finally separate and agree, with some reluctance, that they need to get back to going through boxes.

"Derek, wait – "

"Now what?"

"You need to try on yours too. It's only fair."

He frowns. "I already tried on the speedo you found."

"Yeah." She smiles at the memory. "And I _really_ appreciate that, honey, but you also have to try on the eighth anniversary set."

"Addison – "

"Fair's fair."

"Fine. But you can't laugh," he warns her.

"Why would I laugh?" she asks, forcing her mouth into a straight line.

She laughs.

She laughs a lot.

She's still laughing when Derek, huffily trying to get his other leg into the black lace pants, tips over and falls into their prized sex swing. He pulls her down on top of him in revenge, and she barely has time to warn him that it's not a hammock, _Derek, be careful!_ before he's tipped them both out onto a mercifully placed bag of something soft, which proceeds to rip underneath their bodies.

"I hope you're happy now," Derek says with a surprising amount of dignity for a man half in and half out of lacy black … are they _assless chaps?_

God, she must have been drunk when she ordered those. She'll have to ask Savvy. Or, better yet, block it out of her mind entirely.

"I'm very happy," she says, "although I'll be happier when we're both out of … whatever these are."

Teamwork indeed makes the dream work, just like Chief Rossman used to say, because they manage with some effort to strip each other out of the ill-advised costumes and add them to a mostly empty box they've decided to use for trash.

They stand together now, observing the mostly empty _trash_ box … and the stack of _keep_ boxes.

"We can't keep everything, Addie," Derek says gently.

"We could get a storage space … ." Her voice trails off as she turns to him. "Those are our medical school textbooks."

"They're out of date," he counters. "Man wasn't barely walking upright when those were written."

"They're not that out of date."

"Not that out of date?" He lifts an eyebrow. "I'm fairly certain they said the female orgasm was a myth."

"Well." Addison tosses her hair a little. "Good thing we didn't listen, then."

She shivers before he can respond, both of them realizing at the same time that if they're neither fighting nor … their other favorite f-word … it's a little chilly in the basement for naked organizing.

Addison strips open a large canvas duffel that, from its softness, seems to contain clothes. "Oh, Derek, look!"

It's an ancient, ratty looking Columbia sweatshirt. There's a hole at the hem –

"Lab," she says knowingly, running her fingers over the embroidered letters. Before Derek can respond, she's wriggled her way into it. It's oversized, covering her hips and few centimeters of thigh and it definitely helps, warmth wise.

Derek digs into the bag next, pulling up something green and wooly looking –

"My Christmas sweater!"

… with a large reindeer head on the front, including a big red pompom for a nose.

"Derek, you didn't actually wear that, did you?"

"Of course I wore it. It's a Christmas sweater."

"I guess that explains why you were a virgin until – hey!"

"Take it back," he teases, pulling her back against him, facing away, holding her too firmly for her to reach the sting his palm left behind.

"Your hands are cold," she protests, wriggling when he slips them under the fleecy material of her sweatshirt. "I _just_ got warm. Let go."

He doesn't.

With one arm secured around her waist, he slides the hand of his free arm over her bare hip, pausing with just his fingertips brushing the top of one thigh. She inhales sharply. Slowly, very slowly, he moves his hand.

"Derek …"

She tips her head back against his shoulder, letting him hold her up with one hand while he explores her gently with the other.

"You still want me to let go?" he asks innocently the next time he pauses, earning a frustrated growl.

"You know I don't."

"True." He kisses the side of her neck and she hums with satisfaction as he resumes the movement of his hand, and god he's good at this, he knows her so well, it's calculated at just the perfect speed and pressure to –

"Now why did you stop?" She pushes with frustration at the arm holding her in place.

"Because you were mean about my Christmas sweater." He releases her, steadying her on her feet first, and can't help smiling a little at the look of outrage on her face.

"That was a dirty trick."

"Not dirty enough for you, though – right?" he asks, amused.

"Fine. Wear the Christmas sweater." She winces a little when he pulls it over his head and her husband's tantalizing torso is completely hidden by an oversized, leering Rudolph face, complete with fuzzy red nose.

"But don't expect me to have sex with you in that thing."

"Don't flatter yourself," Derek says. "We're here to do a job, remember? The boxes?"

He points, which makes the sweater ride up, giving her an excellent view of something _much_ better than Rudolph.

"Addie."

"Hm?"

"Focus," he says, turning her gently away from Rudolph and his friends and pointing to the boxes again.

Actually, Rudolph was a good choice.

They should maybe take the sweater with them, because Addison manages to keep her hands to herself, even reminding Derek – when she bends to lift a stack of old notebooks and he gets distracted by the rosy imprint of his hand on her flesh – that they're here to do a job.

..

"Not bad," Derek says, surveying the room.

"No, not bad at all." Addison leans against him. She's sort of used to the itchy green wool now. She gives Rudolph's fuzzy red nose an affectionate tweak. "What's left?"

He ticks their agenda off on his hands. "We went through the books. Some of the clothes. My records," and he says _my records_ in a tone of voice she'd rather hear describing her … but fine.

"Your motorcycle is alive and well," she reminds him, pointing toward the tarp in the corner of the storage room. They checked it out and she used all their willpower, Desk Appearance Ticket be damned, not to repeat her performance from his thirtieth birthday by mounting the motorcycle and whispering to him that there was still one way he was permitted to ride it … .

She glances at him and his expression suggests he's remembering the same thing.

"So what's left?" she asks again.

"Just those." Derek points, and she sees two weatherproof tubs labeled _photos._

She swallows hard.

"We should probably sit down for this," she says.

Derek indicates the ancient, heavy futon against the wall and she wrinkles her nose. "We're not wearing underwear," she reminds him.

"I've spent a lot of time with you on that futon, and we were very rarely wearing underwear."

"That was different."

He doesn't argue with her, just throws down a sheet from the _Summer – Queen_ box before he hauls both tubs of photos to the futon and then pats the striped fabric to remind her to join him.

… and it's not as bad as she feared.

She's not sure _what_ she feared, actually: that Derek somehow came down here before he moved to Seattle and ripped her out of all the albums, shredded any pictures that showed how in love they were? Or, maybe worse … that she'd see something in the photographs she would never have again?

It turns out to be neither of those.

They prop up against the old futon, which although hideous was remarkably sturdy – they prized it for its heaviness; it was the one surface their most acrobatic antics never seemed to threaten – with the photographs between them and take turns dipping their hands into the box and pulling up a memory.

"Derek, your hair!" She laughs, holding out the shot of the two of them in medical school, sitting side by side outside Stuyvesant Hall – she's holding his arm and laughing up at him; he looks like he was captured mid-sentence, but the real star of the photo is his head of riotous dark curls.

"Some of us were too busy studying to primp," Derek says defensively, taking the photo and studying it. "And anyway, you said you liked it."

"I did like it." She takes the photo back. "You look adorable."

He makes a face, then reaches into the box, looking for –

"Derek, that's cheating."

They're supposed to pull out photos blind, but he seems to have something in mind –

"Aha!" He holds it aloft triumphantly. "Your intern bangs."

She squeezes her eyes closed, refusing to look until he runs his free hand up her ribs and she's too ticklish to avoid the picture.

"Ugh, those bangs." She glares at him. "How could you let me cut them?"

"I wasn't about to tell you not to," he says indignantly. "Not if I wanted to stay in your – good graces."

She studies the photo. The bangs are – they're pretty terrible, long and lank and why she thought a style that needed to be cared for frequently was a good idea during her internship is a mystery to her in retrospect. Other than the bangs, though – not bad.

Not bad at all.

"I'm so young," she says longingly, touching her unlined face. "And skinny."

"You look better now," he says automatically.

"Are you saying I'm fat now?"

"I should have known that was a trap." He takes the picture out of her hands. "Next?"

It's her turn. "Oh, Derek, look – "

Her niece Caroline, freshly delivered into the world, wailing dramatically in a beaming Addison's arms.

He studies the shot and smiles at her.

They go back and forth like this for a while, refamiliarizing themselves with old memories and interjecting as needed.

 _Their first summer in the Hamptons house, sitting with Savvy and their tennis rackets – Weiss must have snapped the picture._

 _The rowboat Derek loved and Addison hated; she's half in and half out of it in wellies and one of his old shirts._

"I loved that outfit," he says quietly.

"I wouldn't call that an outfit," she says, but she's touched nonetheless.

 _Christmas in the brownstone, a clumsily taken turned-around shot of both of them, too close to the camera, laughing._

"They should invent a better way to take pictures of yourself," Addison muses.

"Only a narcissist would want that."

"So you _are_ interested, then?"

 _Thanksgiving at his mother's house, Addison tracing handprint turkeys with a gaggle of nieces and nephews like a redheaded pied piper, grinning at their littlest nephew and apparently unaware of the photograph._

 _Just Derek, holding a cup of coffee and sitting on the window seat overlooking the park with one hand raised, maybe telling her not to take the picture._

 _Stuck to the back of that one – Derek looking resigned but no longer gesturing, posing for the picture at last._

"Was that really so hard?" Addison asks.

 _Addison in a skimpy bathrobe, cold cream and outrage on her face in equal measure._

"Revenge," Derek suggests.

 _Sepia-tinted pictures in the park, a not-so-artistic but still sweet shot of two pairs of tennis shoes surrounded by autumn leaves._

 _Derek stretched out on the hammock in the Hamptons, eyes closed, one arm behind his head –_

"You took a picture while I was sleeping? I think that qualifies as stalking."

"Then that picture in my robe qualifies as perving!"

 _Derek in a dark suit, Addison in a deep green dress with her hair set in formal waves, standing side by side with matching smiles, holding a plaque._

"The awards ceremony."

 _Same dress, but Addison is laughing in what looks like the back of a cab, her long legs drawn up to show her stockinged feet are bare – she must have taken off her heels for the ride home – the plaque is propped up on the seat next to her._

 _Same dress, and now Derek's suited arm extends into the frame, holding her heels by their narrow straps; the angle is off but half of Addison's laughing face is visible._

"That was a good night," she says quietly.

"That was a good night," he repeats.

"My shoes were new," she says slowly, remembering, "and I didn't have time to break them in so I took them off as soon as we got in the cab."

"You didn't want to put them back on when we got out," Derek supplies, "because your feet still hurt. But the sidewalk was cold and dirty."

"So you carried me _and_ my shoes all the way up the steps and into the house." Addison smiles at the memory.

 _Summer at the Hamptons house, matching Adirondack chairs with a closeup of her long bare legs, crossed._

"Creep," she says affectionately.

 _Summer again, the heat visible in the air, a long shot this time with Shepherds covering the lawn – there's a series of these, and they thumb through like a flip book: nieces and nephews tossing a beach ball, Derek's sisters and their husbands alternately chatting, corralling children, sipping beer, Derek and his brothers-in-law manning the grill, Addison standing in the shallow end of the pool with a niece sitting atop her shoulders, teaching another one how to swim._

"I miss it," Addison confesses.

It's another house chock full of memories, one that will need to split open and examined like this one, but … she misses it.

She glances uncertainly at Derek. She's fairly sure he never liked their summer house as much as she did, even though he looks happy in the pictures …

 _Addison posing with a huge raw turkey, wearing an apron that says 'baby's first thanksgiving' –_

They both laugh a little at this, and then Addison remembers what happened to her first turkey on her first Thanksgiving as hostess and shoots her husband a dirty look.

"That was not my fault," he says, sounding totally unbothered.

Typical.

 _Addison and Derek outside Stuyvesant Hall, leaning against the same wall as the picture from their medical school days – except they're older, much older, Derek's hair subdued into perfection and Addison far more groomed than the student who wore jeans and ponytails._

"Reunion," she says. "Our ten-year reunion. I forgot about that."

It was two – no, almost three – years ago now. Derek looks at the shot with some interest and she fishes through the box for some others.

 _Derek standing in the same lab where they met while Addison beams at him._

"I wanted you to pretend to propose to me," she recalls, a little embarrassed by the memory.

"The floor was dirty," Derek says without meeting her eyes.

 _Sam and Derek sitting on the high stools in one of their old classrooms._

 _Naomi and Addison, arms around each other's shoulders._

 _Sam carrying Maya piggyback up college hill._

 _Addison alone in front of Clarendon Library, both hands aloft like she's surrendering._

She remembers that day.

She remembers taking photographs.

"Derek, wait – "

 _Mark._

 _Mark and Derek standing side by side, both looking that combination of annoyed and resigned when someone you love insists on taking a picture of you._

 _Mark showing Maya how to use his new phone while Naomi watches from close by_

 _Sam and Naomi arm in arm, half perched on the low fence outside Clarendon._

She exhales slowly.

 _Mark again, holding a paper cup of coffee, alone._

 _Mark holding the same coffee, not alone, standing with Addison, mouth open in mid-speech while hers is open in laughter._

 _Mark, Addison, and Derek standing in a row with their arms around each other, her long hair blowing in the wind._

"I think we've seen enough."

Derek flicks the photograph back into the box.

Addison swallows hard. "It's our ten-year reunion," she says in a small voice. "He's a part of our history, Derek, but that doesn't mean – "

"Was it history?" he asks abruptly.

"Was it – what do you mean?"

"Was it history?" he asks again, stretching the words out like she's slow. "Or were you screwing him then too?"

Heat floods her face. "Of course I wasn't – that was almost three years ago."

"Forget it." Derek pushes the box of photos aside and vaults off the futon. "This was a mistake."

"What was?" She scrambles to her feet to follow him. "Looking at pictures? Going down to the basement?"

He doesn't answer, he's striding to the door and she's chasing him now, anxiety moving her faster.

She gets to the door first and blocks the knob.

"Sleeping in the brownstone?" she asks, her voice shaking as he continues to ignore her.

"Addison, get out of the way." He tries to reach past her.

"Coming to Manhattan?" she asks, not moving.

" _Addison_."

She takes a deep breath, her heart pounding. She doesn't want to ask it … but she does.

"Staying with me?"

This silence is the loudest one of all.

She can hear her own pulse.

She shivers, remembering she's wearing nothing but a sweatshirt; gooseflesh rises on her legs and he takes advantage of her distraction to move her – not roughly; gently if anything, but completely impersonally – like she's another one of the boxes in his way.

He pulls open the door and closes it firmly behind him so she's left standing alone, chilled, listening to him ascend the stairs without her.

..

Derek climbs the stairs on sheer autopilot, a red haze in front of his eyes.

Every time he does this, lets down his guard a little, the ugly part of their past comes slamming back. And every time, somehow, she manages to make herself the victim. He pulls the door shut behind him, flicking the deadbolt – Addison was always reminding him to do it: _Don't forget to lock the door!_ ; if they'd been working in the basement that day she'd roll over in bed hours later and whisper: _Derek, you locked the door, right?_ She wouldn't go to sleep until he'd reassured her.

More memories.

Just what he needs.

He pushes them away with a flick of the stereo system to drown out unwelcome thoughts and fishes in his bag for some clothes without any pompoms on them.

..

She settles on the futon after he leaves, to gather herself. She's not going to cry – she wouldn't mind it, but she knows it's not going to help.

The basement feels lonely and isolated, its own world.

She knows Derek probably wants space – but it's cold down here.

Cold – and even a little creepy.

She glances up at the broken porthole window, the one she tried to shimmy through the day before.

 _Is_ it too small for an intruder?

She shudders, then pulls the sweatshirt tighter around her and heads for the stairs. She'll give him space – she'll go for a walk or something, let him have the brownstone –

But the door to the main floor doesn't budge.

Confused, she rattles it.

She twists the knob.

And then she stands there with her hand wrapped around cold metal realizing that the door is deadbolted.

 _Fuck._

Of course it's deadbolted. Derek never went upstairs before her. They always left together and he always ushered her ahead of him; she'd enter the main level first and he'd pull the door shut behind him, deadbolting it.

 _Did you remember to lock the door?_

She curses habit.

 _Don't forget to lock the door!_

She rattles the door again.

"Derek!"

She calls his name a few more times, her voice starting to go hoarse.

She bangs on the steel-framed door, but she can make out music coming from upstairs – there's no way he'll hear her.

She pounds back down the stairs looking for – but no, there's no phone down here.

Her blackberry and cell phone are upstairs.

"Derek!" She pounds the door. "Can you hear me?"

Frustrated, she slams her palms against the metal door hard enough to sting.

"Derek! Derek, please!"

… nothing.

She sinks down onto the top step, burying her head in her updrawn knees.

..

So she's sulking.

Derek half expected his wife to follow him back up the stairs and pull one of her usual games: passive-aggression … flipping out … trying to get him to _talk about it._ And if all else fails … sex.

He's not up for any of those.

Well, not the first three, anyway.

And the last one doesn't sound that great anymore. Not when the image of his former best friend with his arm around Addison _and_ Derek. Such a good, homewrecking friend.

He grits his teeth.

He turns up _The Clash._

Nothing like some loud music and good old-fashioned stomping to work out a bad mood. He pours a scotch and downs it fast – that helps, too – and he's grateful the realtor left alone both his CDs and his liquor cabinet.

..

He'll have to open the door sometime.

He'll realize it was locked.

Right?

It _was_ a mistake … right?

Her mind swims with unwelcome memory – but that was different. That night was different. He was annoyed, seeing that picture with Mark, but not angry like the night he caught them.

She shivers a little again, rubbing at her arms to warm herself. Her hands settle over her biceps as she sits on the stairs.

 _Get out of my house, now!_

He slammed the door then.

That was different.

This is different.

This is muscle memory.

Habit.

He doesn't hate her. Not anymore.

… right?

..

He finds himself a little annoyed that she's still down there. Knowing Addison, she's trying to make him worry about her so he'll go check on her. Passive-aggressive to the end.

… not that this is the end. It's just an expression.

He sits on the couch, pulling his legs up. He rests his feet against one of the throw pillows in the way he knows she doesn't like.

 _See, Addie? This is what you get when you sulk instead of coming upstairs._

The music is loud and throbbing, at least, helping to distract him. She doesn't like him to turn the stereo up this high either – but then she's not here, is she?

He scrolls through his blackberry, feeling fidgety and distracted. There's so much back and forth here, push pull, one minute they're naked, as close as two people can be, he's smelling her hair and touching her skin and hearing her laugh and it feels … good. It actually feels good, and normal, and _them._

And then something pops up: Mark himself, yesterday. The photograph, today. The Shepherd Wall of Fame at Nancy's house that night.

Something that reminds him that things aren't normal.

Except that on this trip, the _normal_ seems to be a lot more frequent than the abnormal.

And he has no idea what that means.

..

 _Derek._

She doesn't say it out loud, because her throat feels dry and yes, there's a sink next to the washer-dryer but she's going to wait until death looms to drink out of a basement faucet, thank you very much. Plus it's a huge industrial sink and she'd basically have to climb into it and that's if she's desperate.

She's not desperate, not yet.

Right?

 _Derek._

The music is loud. Thumping bass, voices – loud. She recognizes the song, of course, but if Derek asked she'd pretend not to, and he'd pretend to be annoyed. That's just what they do.

She leans back against the door, hugging her knees.

She's cold.

She's nervous – which is silly, because she's on her own basement stairs, but anxiety still claws at the middle of her, leaving her chilled and aching.

She slumps back, letting the door support her.

He'll figure it out eventually.

He'll realize what he did.

He'll realize where she is.

Right?

 _Derek …_

 _.._

They're trying. He knows that.

Just like he knows that some things don't change.

They may be on – okay, fine, sex probation, but they're here, in their old home. And in some strange ways, it's still the same.

Which is Derek is still attempting to prop his feet up on the pillows (and succeeding).

It's fine, though.

Addison will just scold him when she finally deigns to join him in the house.

Some things may change – his wife nagging him isn't going to change.

 _Derek, don't leave your clothes on the chair!_

 _Derek, don't put your feet on the pillows!_

 _Derek, don't forget to lock the door!_

At least she can't scold him for that one. He's positive he deadbolted the basement door when he came up here, so –

The thumping bass from the stereo turns into his own heartbeat.

 _He locked the door._

He scrambles off the couch so fast that panic nearly sends him tripping over his own feet.

"Addison!"

His bare feet pound the hardwood floor all the way to the basement door, which – _fuck, fuck,_ his memory didn't fail him, not like his muscle memory did: it's deadbolted.

Quickly he jerks back the bolt and yanks the door open, calling her name – as a hunched and stunned-looking Addison tumbles backwards out of the open doorway, her head thumping the floor.

"Addison!" He grabs her shoulders and pulls her upright. The mat – there's a spongy mat meant to keep basement dirt from tracking into the house. His fingers glide over the back of her head – it can't have been comfortable, but it least it wasn't the hardwood floor. When she's sitting up on her own he cups her face with both hands. "Are you okay?"

"Derek," she whispers.

"I'm sorry." He pushes her hair out of her eyes and then pulls her into his arms. "I'm so sorry."

She leans against him but doesn't wrap her arms around him in turn. "I didn't mean to lock the door." She's murmuring something into his shoulder that he can't hear; gently, he pushes her back. "What did you say, Addie?"

"Muscle memory," she repeats. Her voice sounds a little hoarse.

 _She must have been calling for me._

Guilt floods him. He holds her tighter, rocking her a little. She feels so cold. "There are blankets downstairs," he reminds her, "coats and … things."

"I didn't want to leave the door," she admits, curled against him now. "In case you could hear me."

"The music," he admits. "I didn't hear anything, Addie, I swear – "

"I know you didn't." She pulls his arm tighter around her and they sit there on the floor together, his feet on the top step.

"I didn't mean to." He's smoothing her hair – more muscle memory now, stroking it out of her eyes, and he rests a hand on her cheek for a moment, waiting for her to look at him. "You know I didn't mean to lock the door?"

He's pretty sure it was intended as a statement, but it comes out as a question.

"Yeah." She's toying with the cuff of his shirt, not meeting his eyes. "You changed," she says.

 _We both did_ , he could reply, _but we stayed the same too._

Then he realizes she's talking about his clothing. "You miss Rudolph?" he teases her gently.

She smiles a little. "More than I thought I would."

He brushes her hair back from her face again. He recognizes a deflection when he sees it and it seems too important right now. "Addie. It was muscle memory – habit – it was stupid, is what it was, but it wasn't on purpose. I need you to know that."

"I do," she says quietly. "I do know that."

"Okay." He cups her cheek again; she lets her face fall a little into his palm.

"What is it?" he probes carefully when she hesitates.

"I know you didn't mean to lock me out today," she says finally, still not meeting his eyes, both her hands now busily fidgeting with the hem of her sweatshirt.

But there's a tremor in her voice that doesn't make sense, if what she's saying is true.

"Addie?"

He waits for her to look at him.

"Today," she says, sounding almost embarrassed. "You didn't mean to lock me out today, but … you did the other time."

"The other – "

And then the image slams into his memory like the door slamming in her face, like his own hand holding it closed while she knocked and pleaded and cried.

It's not a night he wants to remember.

It's not a night he wants to discuss.

He could deflect too, and he'd like to – she's a little shaken up, her skin still chilled, he could focus on that instead.

"I did mean it," he admits quietly. "The other time, I meant it."

She leans her head against him as if just hearing this exhausted her. "It's okay," she says. "I deserved it."

All this time he's been wanting her to take responsibility for what she's done … but not like this.

"No, you didn't." He nudges her when she doesn't look up, her face pressed into his shirt. He gives her a little time, stroking her hair and waiting for her to look up at him.

But then he finds he's not quite sure what to say. "… it's your house, too," he says finally.

"I'm sorry, Derek." She reaches up to touch his face. "It's your house, too," she says, repeating his words, "but it must not have felt that way after what I did. And it wasn't muscle memory or habit, it was just – a really, really bad decision. And I'm so sorry."

"Yeah." He pulls her a little closer. "I'm sorry too."

They sit there a few minutes longer, wrapped around each other on the top step of the basement staircase, an unlikely peace descending despite the still-pounding music – in the house that was both of theirs.

..

It's much quieter now.

She was still shivering a little when they finally stood up, and he coaxed her into a warm shower where he massaged her neck and shoulders and, when he sensed a growing headache from the tightness in the muscles around her jaw, her scalp too. She was practically purring when he finished, leaning most of her weight against him and now they're still standing under the pounding water. Maybe the realtor will foot the water bill – but either way, he's pretty sure he made the right decision.

Addison rests her wet head against his shoulder; he digs his fingers against the base of her skull and she sighs into his skin as he feels the tension ease.

"Derek, I wasn't even down there that long." She tips her head back, her voice less hoarse now after drinking water and breathing in the warm steam, her eyes huge in her bare face. "You're going to spoil me."

"I'm still not going to wear those lace … chaps," he says lightly. "So you're not that spoiled."

She laughs a little. "I didn't want either one of us to wear them. That's why I hid the package."

He doesn't respond, just moves them both closer under the warm spray. He's tired of hiding things … and he thinks she might be too.

..

"Tired?"

She leans against him. "A little … why? What did you have in mind?"

He kisses the side of her neck. " _You_ have a one-track mind."

"Well, so do you – so it's a good thing it's the same track."

"That's fair." He shifts her on his lap – they're sitting together on his office chair, part of their unspoken pact that certain parts of the house still belong to them. The room is free of trains and tracks – it's just for them. There's only a damp towel between them – it could be this morning, or yesterday, on this same chair.

Her stomach growls and then she laughs – apparently the whole day is going to feel like déjà vu. There's a lightness in the air that wasn't there before – a familiarity, even a comfort. She sits on the kitchen island in one of Derek's shirts, finger-combing her wet hair, while he orders pizza; he turns on the news and they lean against each other on the couch while he plays idly while she toys with the cuff of his shirt and he rubs the top of her arm. Her lids grow heavy, and then the pizza arrives and she's rejuvenated – they eat on the floor on top of the deflated air mattress, the sounds coming from both of them reminiscent of several of the day's couplings.

… the pizza is good.

It's very good.

They open a bottle of wine, and in the dim kitchen as the sun sets she stands up on her toes a little to kiss him.

"What was that for?"

"Thank you," she says simply.

"For what?"

She takes a deep breath. "For looking at pictures," she says. "For going down to the basement. For sleeping in the brownstone."

She leans in and kisses him again.

"For coming to Manhattan," she says.

"Addison." He touches her cheek and she rests her hand on top of his so they're joined.

"…for staying with me," she finishes. "Thank you. And, um, I love you," she adds, feeling shy for some reason even though she's been saying the words for a decade and a half.

It's more that he hasn't said it yet, not since Mark, and Meredith, and she's used to that now.

It's okay.

She's not expecting a response.

He brushes her hair back from her face, looking at her so intensely that she has to swallow hard.

She opens her mouth to tell him it's okay, she knows he's not ready, it's enough just for her to say it and she doesn't expect anything in return, but he speaks before she can.

"I love you too," he says.

They exchange a soft, gentle kiss and hold each other tenderly for the rest of the night.

..

… okay, not that last part. Yes, everything right up to _I love you too_ , but while another couple certainly might have taken the soft and tender route, Addison and Derek react instead to those four words like they've just been collectively electrocuted.

They come together in a frantic tangle of lips and teeth; he cups the back of her head where she fell and she swats his hand down, _don't you dare be gentle,_ and uses her nails to underscore her words. He drags his own shirt over her head and imprints her white skin with suction until she's gasping for breath. She hangs on so tightly she can barely fit her hands between them to yank open his fly and then he's hoisting her back up onto the kitchen island, they've done it before and the height is perfect and she's hanging on with both hands, muscles straining, teeth on her lower lip while he slams into her in that overlap of speed and finesse that can only work if you know each other's bodies well.

Really well.

Their coupling is fast and furious, her head thrown back while his lips attack her neck, her legs wrapped possessively around his hips while her muscles clench him so fiercely from inside that he thinks he might lose it right then. He forces a hand between them, leveling out friction so carefully calibrated that when she explodes around him he's already sucking her tongue into his mouth, leaving her keening for more. He doesn't make her wait very long; he's not trying to impress – just to please. To please both of them, and she surrenders to him, giving up the control he needs to pin her frantically circling hips against the counter and push her over the edge with a final series of thrusts designed to leave neither one of them standing.

For a while all she sees is stars and all he feels is the breath-stealing pressure of her grip on him and he's fairly sure he's never going to move again and she's quite certain she doesn't want to.

..

He's not sure how they even made it up the stairs, just that they both desperately needed to rinse off in the shower and they certainly weren't going to go back down the stairs when all four Shepherd legs are still trembling.

"Derek," she says once she can speak again, her staggered breaths moving his chest and his hers as they lie in tangled tandem on top of the area rug in his office.

"Hm?" His body is still pulsing; every time he thinks he's come down from it she'll ride out an aftershock in his arms that makes him feel like he's twenty-two again.

"Just to be clear – " her voice is throaty, that humming tone that can push him over the edge, and she knows it – "was _that_ the kind of sex I'm allowed to thank you for? Because it was definitely not boring."

He considers the effort it would take to swat her in response – his palm is resting right over the rounded flesh he'd like to mark, but he's so tired … and so comfortable … that he decides he'll bank it for later.

"You can thank me," he says. "As long as I can thank you too."

"It's a deal."

"We're a pretty good team," he admits.

"Teamwork …"

" … makes the dream work," he finishes, and he doesn't have to cite Chief Rossman because he knows she's remembering too. For a moment they're interns again.

But better.

There's no way they could have done what they just did as interns. Medicine isn't the only thing they learned together.

He contemplates this, what it means to learn another person, to _learn each other_ , while her soft pliant body grows heavier against his and he lets his wife's peaceful breaths draw him to sleep in her wake.

..

She knows something isn't right as soon as she opens her eyes.

It's dark – very dark – and she's lying on the floor on top of the area rug in Derek's office, his warm naked body next to hers.

That part is fine.

It's something she heard that woke her up.

Something frightening.

Something –

" _Derek_ ," she hisses, shaking him awake and then pressing her palm over his mouth so he won't speak out loud. She keeps her voice to a panicked whisper. "Derek, I think there's someone in the house!"

It's her worst nightmare, her heart pounding in her throat – Derek knows that, he knows, and he's sitting up in a heartbeat, shushing her with two fingers over her mouth now, trying to reassure her.

But then they both hear it.

A distinctive creak, from downstairs.

Footsteps.

"Derek," she whimpers and he pulls her close.

"It's okay. You stay here," he tells her quietly. "I'm going to go check it out."

"No!" She grabs for him, panicked, not caring how loud she is. "Derek, you can't go face off with a bunch of – serial killers!"

"Look, we don't know what – "

But then they hear the creaks again. They hear _voices._

He holds her tightly for a moment. "It's going to be okay."

He makes it to the desk with some difficulty since she's still clinging to him, pushing the phone into her hand. "Call 911," he directs as he starts toward the landing, but she follows him, grabbing his arm. "Derek, _no_ – you can't confront them!"

He gives up trying to separate and just pushes her down on the floor in the hallway to keep her out of sight while he tries to peer through the balustrades to see downstairs. He can hear voices, low murmurs – there's definitely someone in the house, even if the voices don't sound particularly menacing from here.

"Just stay calm," he mutters into her hair.

"I need – I need clothes." She grabs at him anxiously. "Ugh, why am I always naked?"

"Do I really need to answer that?"

She ducks against him in response and he pulls her close.

They listen to the low murmur of the intruders' voices.

"Derek – "

He shushes her, holding her tightly.

The voices may not be menacing –

But they're getting louder.

Addison is pulling at him, her eyes huge with fear; he sinks down beside her, trying to shield her naked body with his as the voices grow more distinct and the words discernible.

" _Someone's been using my bug kit, and they moved my spider!_ "

Derek and Addison exchange a confused look. The voice sounds young, almost like a child's.

More footsteps, during which they clutch each other's hands tightly – and the next voice is a man's deep baritone.

" _Someone's been sleeping on the living room floor, and they broke my air mattress!_ "

Addison stiffens in his arms. "Um … Derek … ."

More footsteps, and then another voice – a woman's this time.

" _Someone's been drinking out of my cup, and they left coffee in it!_ "

Derek pulls away to see his wife's face. "Addie," he whispers urgently, "when you said you talked to the realtor – "

The voice are getting louder.

The last one is a little girl's voice: loud, accusatory, and clear as a bell:

" _Someone's been sleeping in our house – and they're_ _still here!_ "

..

At first it's sheer panic.

It's two blond pigtails attached to a face peering between the balustrades and shrieking; two tall blond adults yelling and shielding the children – which is really quite insulting when the Shepherds are the ones who were frightened –

"What were you saying about the realtor?" Derek hisses during the melee, still trying to shield as much of himself and Addison as he can while the blond family shouts at them.

"Um, it's possible the realtor already rented out the brownstone?"

"You think?" Derek asks and she can't exactly blame him for his sarcasm, especially when he pushes her out of the way to bat down a shoe – the second of its kind – hurled up the stairs by the angry renters.

"Anna, call the police," the man is directing his wife, while he pushes both children behind him. "Kurt, Goldie, stay close."

"You don't have to call the police! It's our house!" Addison says, gesturing expansively to the brownstone and then, when the still unnamed man claps a chivalrous hand over his eyes, quickly moving her arms to shield her breasts.

" _Your_ house," he says doubtfully.

"Yes, our house! We can prove it! There are pictures of us on … " she stops, helplessly. All the personal photographs are gone. Staging, or whatever. Oh! "There are pictures of us in the basement," she offers desperately, "we can all go look at them!"

"I'm not going to the basement with you," the wife – Anna? – says indignantly, her phone in her hand. "I know how _that_ horror movie ends."

"Is this a horror movie?" her blond husband asks. "Because it seems more like a por – "

" – we are _so_ sorry about this," Addison cuts in, apparently having decided that her naked self is less intrusive than Derek's, and blocking his most interesting parts with the back of her body … which, combined with the adrenaline of the break-in-non-break-in, is having a rather poorly timed effect.

"Are there any more of you here?" the man asks abruptly.

"More of – " Addison stops, confused.

"More _perverts_ ," he clarifies.

"What's a pervert?" the little boy asks with interest.

"Never mind," says his mother.

"It's those two up there," says his father.

"We are not _perverts_ ," Addison says defensively. "We're surgeons."

"Surgeons?" the man asks. "And what were you doing up there on our hallway floor – creating a sterile field?"

"It's _our_ hallway floor," Addison says before Derek can stop her, "first of all, and we were … creating sterile fields on it long before you came to town!"

"Great," Derek mutters into her hair. "Just great. Piss off the renters while we're naked."

"We're sorry," Addison calls down the stairs, still trying to hide both of them even though she's gotten the distinct impression Derek is the one who really needs to be hidden. "Seriously?" she hisses over her shoulder in his direction.

"It's a physiological response!" he hisses back. "What do you want from me?"

"Where was that physiological response yesterday when we needed it?"

"Excuse me … perverts?" the blond man's voice carries up the stairs.

"What is it?" Addison asks irritably. "And we're not perverts."

"You answered to perverts," he points out.

"I know that, but I was just being polite." Addison sighs. "Look, can we just – get some clothes on, and talk? We're really sorry we didn't know you were renting and – you've done such, um, such lovely things with the house, and … maybe we can chat, or … ."

The man actually looks like he might be considering it.

"Take the kids into the library and bring the phone and lock the door," he instructs his wife.

Then he turns back to Addison and Derek and clears his throat, perhaps about to start compromising.

But then two things happen.

Two unfortunate things.

First, the man's new angle, after he pointed his family towards the library, affords him a view of the master bedroom from below.

"Is that – _crime scene tape_ on our bedroom?" he asks with disbelief.

"Um – " Addison turns to follow his gaze, trying to think of an excuse.

And that's when the second thing happens: she steps away from Derek, giving the blond man another good view.

One that does not bode well for the are-they-or-aren't-they-perverts controversy.

Derek looks down when he senses the mood change, realizing what happened.

 _Fuck_.

He must have said it out loud, because Addison winces, moving to cover him up. "At this rate … only if they give us conjugal visits," she mutters.

..

"This should be good. Go ahead, doc. Talk."

Addison gulps. "Officer Pulaski – I, uh, I didn't realize you'd be the one coming."

"This is my beat," he says. "Not usually this much excitement up here in fancypants land, at least not until you two came to town."

Addison and Derek exchange a glance, each of them wrapped in a hastily grabbed towel from the linen closet while their none-too-thrilled tenant – Helmut, that's his name – shouted at them.

"Well," Addison says hesitantly, "the thing is, you see, it's – "

"Let me save you some time, sweetheart." Pulaski raises his very red, very bushy eyebrows. " _It's really not what we think._ "

"Exactly," she says in a small voice, Derek nodding vigorously by her side.

"Sure. I believe you." He exchanges a glance with Officer Liang. "You can tell the rest of the story to the sergeant down at the precinct."

After some commotion, including things like _but it's our house_ and far too many uses of the word _pervert_ for either Shepherd's liking, and a reluctant extra five minutes for them to get dressed under armed supervision – _it's not a favor, doc, I just really don't need that … thing pointed at me for twenty blocks –_ they're shuffled out the door toward the waiting police car.

..

Addison is resting her forehead against the bars of the holding cell, deciding she's given up the fight against germs, and equally given up wondering how she went from some of the best sex of this trip – which is saying a lot – to standing weak-kneed behind bars in a police precinct wearing a bra she was really intending to save for Derek –

(They were rushing her when she was getting dressed, okay? She didn't realize how awkward it would make the pat-down.)

… while her husband stands across the cement floor in _his_ holding cell, looking like he doesn't much appreciate the bra, if he noticed it at all.

"Hey. Doctor Perv."

"Stop calling me that," Addison scowls without looking.

"You and your perv husband got a visitor."

A visitor?

She raises her eyes anxiously; they didn't call Savvy or Weiss, afraid to tell them what happened, so that means it must be –

" _Mark_?" she asks incredulously when she sees who's swaggering up to them in familiar leather jacket, smirking. "What are you doing here?"

Across the cement floor in his holding cell, Derek looks as surprised as she feels.

"I wanted to hang out with my two favorite jailbirds," Mark says.

"But how did you – "

Derek and Addison exchange a quick, wordless glance, eleven-years-married for _did you call him? Nope. You? Nope._

"The Krauses called me."

"The Krauses?" Addison is confused.

"Bunch of blonds … two kids about yea high … renting your brownstone?"

Derek inhales sharply. "How do _you_ know the … Krauses or whatever?"

"I'm their emergency contact."

"What?" Derek shakes his head. "Look, just – start over."

Mark sighs like _he's_ the one who's frustrated here. "The realtor's agency needs a local contact. In the state. Which you two weren't, until you decided to come back here and start screwing everywhere you could find like the old days."

"The old – " Addison and Derek exchange another glance.

"You, uh, you talked to the officers?"

"I talked to the officers." Mark smirked. "Here for a little vacation, huh? No particular reason? Not … sex probation?"

Addison blushes. "That's neither here nor there."

"Really? Because it seems to be both _here_ ," Mark points to Addison, "and _there_ ," he turns away to point to Derek, then turns back to Addison with a satisfied grin on his face.

She'd like to slap it, frankly.

But she's already in enough trouble with the police.

"Why are you here?" Derek asks suddenly.

"I just told you." Mark frowns. "The Krauses called me. They told me called the police, I talked to the precinct … ."

"No," Derek says, "that doesn't answer the question."

"Sure it does."

"No. It answers why you knew we were here – but not why _you're_ here."

Addison watches closely as Derek seems to be taking this in: did Mark come just to help them? Could this be the beginning of healing the rift between them, bringing back together two brothers who never should have –

"You knew," she gasps before she can stop herself.

Mark swings around, glaring at her.

"You knew there was a family renting the brownstone! You knew we were staying there when we ran into you that day, and you never told us!"

Mark looks a little uncomfortable.

"Are you kidding?" Derek grits his teeth. "You just can't do enough to help us out, can you, Mark? Just a real hero. Always saving the day."

Addison is about to start yelling at him too when she remembers that he was trying to tell her something, that day in the café.

 _Weren't you renting out the brownstone?_ That's what he asked, and she brushed it off.

But then …

 _Listen, Addison, there's something you should –_

And she didn't let him finish. She cut him off, assuming he was going to try to get her to give him another chance, or … something.

Was he trying to tell them about the renters?

Is this all _her_ fault?

Her cheeks flush deeply.

"Hey, don't blame yourself, Addison," Mark says quietly, studying her face in a way that makes her flush even more. "There's plenty of blame to go around here."

"Just get out of here, Mark," Derek snaps.

"Are you sure you don't want to take this chance to - talk?" Mark asks, raising his eyebrows.

Addison's stomach turns over. " _Mark,_ " she hisses.

He looks like he's torn about whether to say anything – anything at all – while she grips the bars and prays he's not about to expose her to Derek.

(She's too anxious in the moment even for a double entendre somewhere in the region of _she's already done a pretty good job exposing herself to Derek on this trip._ )

" … forget it," he mutters. "Just – try to keep your clothes on until Savvy gets here."

"You called Savvy?" Addison's voice rises to a squeak. "Why?"

"Because I'm not a lawyer," Mark says. "Because I'm operating in two hours. Because it's not my job to clean up after the two of you anymore, even if the Krauses disagree." He pauses. "You broke their air mattress?"

"We thought it was our air mattress," Addison says in a small voice.

Mark shakes his head. "Look, Savvy will be here soon." He glances at his watch. "You two think you can keep it under control for five minutes?"

" … I ask myself that question a lot, actually, but the answer is always no."

They all turn at the familiar voice.

"Savvy," Mark exhales with relief.

"Mark! Great to see you." Savvy kisses his cheek.

"Likewise." Mark holds her away with both hands on her shoulders. "Hey, you look fantastic." He beams with a sculptor's pride. "You're feeling okay?"

"Better than okay." She leans in a little. "And Weiss agrees."

Mark grins. "Told you he'd love 'em. You're doing the exercises we talked about, right?"

Savvy nods.

"Good." Mark leans forward. "Listen, there's a cream I want you to try. I was going to send an email. It's Malaysian, actually, and it has to be shipped under the Live Animal provision, but that's just a formality, so don't – "

"If you're done smuggling cosmetics," Addison calls from her cell, "maybe one of you could help us out?"

"You're not really in a position to be judging the legality of anyone else's actions right now, Addie."

She flushes.

"What's that they say?" Mark grins at Savvy. "Shepherds in glass jail cells shouldn't throw …"

" … Malaysian live animal cream," Savvy finishes for him. "Thanks for looking after them, Mark."

"All he did was make fun of us," Addison scowls.

"Potato, po-tah-to," Mark says with a grin, then jerks his chin in the Shepherds' direction. "See you later, pervs."

"We're not pervs!" Addison yells after his retreating back.

Savvy waits until Mark's gone, propping her hands on her hips so that her trench coat falls open, revealing a darling wrap dress. No wonder Mark noticed her new cleavage; it looks fantastic.

"Sav, that's a great dress. Is it the new spring – "

Her voice drops at her friend's expression.

"Sorry," she whispers, although it's not really fair to blame her – she might be headed for a life of orange jumpsuits; she should be allowed to admire exquisite tailoring while it's still in arms' reach.

Savvy just shakes her head. "Seriously, you two. _What_ am I going to do with you?"

"We were following the rules!" Addison cries. "We were in our house!"

" … which is currently occupied by the world's most wholesome family," Savvy points out, "who did not want to be added to the ever-growing list of innocent civilians defiled by your … reconciliation."

"Not bad, Sav, if you're practicing the prosecution's opening."

They all swing their heads – two behind bars, one not – to see their latest visitor.

"Hi, honey." Savvy leans forward to peck Weiss on the lips in greeting, then turns back to the Shepherds. "See how normal people act in public? Do you _see_ me mounting him right here in the precinct?"

Addison, with great effort, doesn't respond; it looks like Weiss is also working hard to stay silent.

"We're sorry," Derek pipes up from his cell – of _course_ he does, he has to be the good guy. Addison scowls at him, glad in the moment she didn't tell him his shirt was misbuttoned.

Weiss just shakes his head. "Remember when the two of you agreed to stay off the streets?"

"We weren't on the streets," Addison protests. "We were in our house!"

Weiss grimaces. "You're right, Addie, this is my fault. I forgot to tell you that it should be your _current_ house."

Addison and Derek exchange a glance.

"We really didn't mean to defile anyone," Addison says, Derek nodding earnestly in support.

"Famous last words," Weiss recites, throwing his hands up. "Beloved by sex maniacs everywhere."

"They're not sex maniacs this time," Savvy says, glancing at a document they haven't seen. "Apparently, they're perverts."

"We're not perverts," Addison sighs.

"Or sex maniacs," Derek adds.

" _Alleged_ sex maniac perverts," Weiss corrects himself with exaggerated deference, "and homeless ones to boot. Where are you going to stay tonight?"

"You mean we're getting out of jail?" Addison asks eagerly.

Savvy and Weiss exchange a glance. "Don't make us regret this," Savvy says.

"We won't, I _promise_ ," Addison says fervently, Derek nodding so hard he's going to be the one with the stiff neck tomorrow.

"Where are you going to stay?" Weiss repeats. "Can you be trusted in a hotel?"

Um …

Weiss rolls his eyes. "Fine. How about one of your sisters?"

"They all have kids," Savvy whispers.

Offended, Addison starts to object, but then realizes they have a better option.

"We have another house!" she cries.

Derek looks interested – then disappointed. "It's outside the city limits."

"But it's – it's attached to Kings County when you really think about it…." Her voice fades. "Weiss?"

"Give me a minute," he says, taking Savvy's arm and walking with her far enough into the precinct that Derek and Addison can't hear them.

"Okay. You're allowed within 100 miles of the city limits," Weiss announces when he gets back. "Why, I don't know, considering your track record. So yes, the Hamptons house is fine. Lots of property, curtains, good stuff. Stay out of trouble, please."

"We will. We'll stay out of trouble."

"Good," Savvy says. "Because I don't _ever_ want to have to come to lockup again."

She shudders a little.

"Savvy's not used to this," Addison explains to Derek across the cement floor that separates their cells. "Her estate clients all live on Park Avenue and they never go to jail."

"That's not true." Savvy sounds offended now. "Some of them live on Fifth. And as for jail, well." She picks an invisible piece of lint off her fabulous wrap dress. "Never mind," she says.

"The point is that you're not used to this … reality," Addison says, gesturing around the cell.

"Yeah, you're a real woman of the people, Addie," Derek mutters in response.

"Whose side are you on?" she hisses.

"I don't know. Being on _your_ side so far has given me a criminal record."

Weiss clears his throat. "And try not to fight," he says, "not because I want you two to reconcile – even though I do – but because I don't trust you to keep it legal after the fight is finished. You got it?"

Both Shepherds nod vigorously.

"You'll keep it clean?"

More vigorous nodding, Addison even clasping her hands prayerfully.

"I'll believe it when I see it," Weiss says. "And, guys? Just do me a favor and try not to let anyone _else_ see it for the rest of this trip … okay?"

Forget _The Clash._

The sound of the iron-barred doors swinging open is the most beautiful music Derek has ever heard.

..

"So we're really doing this?" Addison confirms. Jail already feels like a distant memory: they've been escorted back to the brownstone, collected their luggage under watchful, armed eyes – with nowhere to change, they're still wearing the hastily collected outfits from earlier.

Weiss reluctantly handed over his car keys when they realized the police weren't going to escort them to a car rental place – not that Addison has any idea where she'd rent a car in the city – and calling a black car to drive them wouldn't help with the fact that it's off season and they'll need to get into town once they're there. And the Jitney isn't running yet and Addison will only ride the railroad when she's drunk … and there's no time for that.

So Weiss's car it is.

"It's leased," he says, "because we put about twenty miles on it a year, and it's going back next month anyway. But don't have sex in it."

"We won't," Addison assures him.

Weiss insists on taping a picture of his mother to the rearview mirror to keep them in line, but finally sends them on their way. Addison watches out of the rearview mirror, just over the watchful eye of Mrs. Ruthie Silverstein, as Savvy and Weiss, who are standing arm in arm on the sidewalk, get smaller and smaller.

"All right." Derek turns to glance at her as they wait at the light to turn onto the highway. "Eastward ho."

" _What_ did you just call me?" Addison asks.

She's laughing.

And despite wearing a mis-buttoned shirt and smelling like holding cell and having been kicked out of his own home _and_ his own city … he decides there are worse things than a road trip with his wife.

And based on the way her fingers are folding into his on the console between them … she just might agree.

"Looks like things are turning around for these sex maniacs," he says smugly as the light turns green and he pulls the car onto the highway.

… we'll see about that.

* * *

 _To be continued (of course). Hamptons time! Meanwhile, "Goldilocks" is written on my original (filthy) outline for this story. I've been waiting to write and share this chapter, and I really hope you enjoyed it. I hope you'll review and let me know - let's keep the Addek Revolution going strong in 2019!_


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